Heart of Darkness
by MidKnight Rider
Summary: She would have him on his knees begging for mercy, stripped of his damned Vulcan certainty, his calm shattered. She would strip him of his dignity and rank and title. She would destroy him.
1. Chapter 1

**Heart of Darkness**

_Finished putting another one on the computer. This one takes place about 1 year after the events in The Enterprise Incident. All mistakes are mine, since I don't have a beta reader. Same with the chess games, all mistakes in notation are mine. (Someone has been trying to teach me to play 3 dimensional chess for about 2 years.) Mostly written from my OC, Daphne's, POV since she is how I explore the Star Trek Universe in general, Spock in particular. Also, I run a full time preschool/daycare/before & after program and I just don't have time to break down and post these stories in sections. _

The USS Enterprise shuddered and shook like a wet dog. Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott shouted an expletive worthy of a Scotsman as he was spun backwards to hit a bulkhead. The resonation of a massive explosion echoing through the ship hit him like a fist, more emotional than physical. It was an internal blast, the shockwave vibrating its way through the Enterprise and threatening to pull her off course. His engineering crew sprang into action, spurred as much by the automatic red alert as by their training. Accompanied by the frantic blaring of the claxton, they compensated to keep the giant vessel from becoming erratic. The voice shouting at him from the Bridge was Ensign Kyle's, not Kirk's, and Scott ignored it. The Alpha Bridge shift had just ended. Scott himself was supposed to be off duty and was now soul deep grateful that he had remained at his post just a little longer.

As he worked with his team to stabilize Enterprise, he was forced to ask himself a painful question. Why hadn't Kirk tried to contact him yet? Just what exactly had violently exploded? Where was Spock?

The only voice he heard that gave him some small sense of peace was McCoy's, demanding to know what the hell had happened. Scott had not been able to tell the doctor anything, just to prepare for casualties.

Once the ship was under control, Scott shouted for the red alert to shut off and set to pinpointing the source of the explosion. Horrified, he saw that the explosion was centered in the area around the Officer's Mess, right where the entire senior Bridge Staff – Kirk, Spock, Uhura, Chekhov, Sulu, all of them – usually gathered to eat when their shift ended.

The ride in the turbolift to the Officer's Mess deck was endless. The doors swished open to chaos. The corridor in front of the Mess was littered with debris being cleared by the emergency response teams and highly motivated medics. They made their way one hunk of wreckage at time to the inside of the demolished Mess.

"Oh my God," Scott heard Christine Chapel whisper in frozen shock. When he saw the destruction inside he understood why.

It was a vision of Hell for anyone who lived on board a starship. The blast had occurred near the door and radiated outward. The room was all but destroyed.

"Concentrate on the living!" McCoy shouted.

Nothing in any of their training or experience had prepared them for this mayhem and carnage. McCoy choked down his own private distress – god in heaven half the people he loved in all the world were in this room! – and concentrated on what he had to do.

The medics and guards scrambled over wreckage looking for missing crewmen. McCoy found the Captain, his clothing covered with blood and as torn as the body within them, beneath the shattered twisted metal remains of a table. Beside him, McCoy could see the top of Chekhov's head, his dark hair matted in blood. Chekhov was moving, trying to struggle and claw his way out of the wreckage. McCoy ordered him to lie still, loudly. He doubted anyone in this room could hear at the moment. Ensign Monroe and Lt. Michaels lay near Chekhov. McCoy knew without checking that they were gone and there was nothing he could do for them. Two medics grimly set to work trying to free Chekhov, while two more lifted their Captain with tender reverence onto a floating stretcher and steered him gently out of the room.

Sulu was also conscious, flung far across the room against the wall farthest from the blast, but he was lying prone, moaning and in shock. Uhura lay beside him, bleeding from a dozen places that could be seen. Crewmen were already surrounding them, testing to see if they could be moved safely.

Spock was easiest to find. The emergency response team was on him in seconds of entering the room. Splatters of liquid green painted the wall beneath the food processors, which were now nothing but twisted metal and flaming wires. The Vulcan was curled in a fetal position; malachite blood was running from dozens of cuts and gashes along his back, shoulders and arms. His uniform was scorched in places. The black hair on the back of his head was matted with blood.

Then they heard a small moan and realized that Spock was wrapped around Daphne so tightly she could barely be seen. But now one of the medics noticed a long, thick strand of hair snaking out from below Spock's jaw, hair that should be bright gold but was now an odd shade of brown as her blood mingled with Spock's. After several frustrating moments of gently wrestling with and shouting at the First Officer, they finally shouted for McCoy. The CMO staggered through dust and wreckage to get to them.

"It's Commander Spock, sir," the medic explained, "We can't get him to let go of Lt. Caras so we can move them both."

McCoy's heart clenched and he ground his teeth. He knelt in the blood and metal, broken glass and splattered food and leaned close to Spock's ear. If anyone's hearing had been adversely affected by the blast, it would have been his.

"SPOCK!" he shouted, "It's McCoy! Let go of Daphne so I can see her."

The response was instant. Spock relaxed so completely McCoy thought he had lost consciousness. McCoy's heart lodged somewhere near his throat and his composure almost failed him. Spock had just surrendered to him one of the people he held most dear in the Universe, without a qualm, with utter trust. While he tended to Spock, Scott joined them and slowly extracted Daphne from the sheltered cocoon he had created. She had one long gash from her temple to her cheek but seemed the most unscathed of all of them. As he lifted her up, she groaned and opened her eyes.

"Spock," she murmured, "Jim."

"Hush, lass," Scotty said, "McCoy has them."

Daphne blinked at him in confusion and Scotty realized she couldn't hear him. Cradling her in his arms he turned her just enough so that she could see Spock and McCoy. She sagged against him and closed her eyes again.

Every hand they could squeeze into the damaged area was put to work removing the injured and the dead. By some miracle they had only lost two of the ten people that had gathered for dinner after the end of Alpha shift. The rest were all on their way to sickbay.

Scotty watched the procession of stretchers making its way to sickbay with a sense of helplessness. He couldn't do anything about the human casualties. But he could start the clean up, and the investigation into what had so badly damaged his beloved Enterprise.


	2. Chapter 2

McCoy sank into his chair in his office, his soul an ocean of exhaustion. He felt as if he had been staring out over a battlefield for too long and had no emotion left to give.

It had taken every ounce of his professional detachment to examine and to finally perform surgery on Jim Kirk. He and Spock had been the most critically injured, having been closest to the heart of the blast.

When they had reached sickbay he and M'Benga had exchanged a long, emotion-charged look. McCoy couldn't work on both of his friends at the same time. He had to surrender one of them to someone else. M'Benga was far more qualified than McCoy to deal with Spock's critical injuries. McCoy split his best and brightest surgeons between them and set Spock aside in his mind.

Kirk…. There was only so much one could do to mend and repair a human body; only so many organs that could be regenerated, so much blood that could be replaced. Kirk's current injuries pushed the outer limits of modern medicine. Even with the advances to medical knowledge available to them, the surgeries on Kirk and Spock had taken hours. In Jim's case McCoy was essentially rebuilding the man. In Spock's …. Every time he came apart no one was sure he could be put back together. Spock had used his own body as a physical shield to protect Daphne. His back, neck and shoulders were covered in shrapnel, some shards so small they could barely be seen, some dangerously close to his spinal cord. His hearing was damaged and he was bleeding internally. A blow to the head had given him a concussion.

And now all they could do was wait, with both men in recovery. Of the ten people who survived the blast, six of them were still in sickbay and would be for some time. He was certain of the survival of five of them. Only Jim remained in critical, if stable, condition. McCoy had done all he could. It was up to Jim and his incredible will to survive from this point.

McCoy was just about to close his eyes in utter weariness when his comm unit buzzed.

"McCoy," he said.

"M'Benga," came the response, "I know you must be as exhausted as I am, but can you come here? There is a problem with Spock."

McCoy was instantly on his feet, a quick shot of adrenaline giving him renewed energy. Spock, according to the reports, had come through the surgeries fine. All that remained was for the Vulcan to sink into a healing coma and stay there. So what could be going wrong?

M'Benga met him at the door of the isolation unit that had set up for Spock. The temperature inside the small room had been set at 115 degrees Fahrenheit with no humidity – Vulcan normal – with the intention that Spock would not have to keep himself warm and thus allow him to start the natural healing process.

"What's wrong?" McCoy demanded.

"He conscious," M'Benga answered, sounding frustrated in a way that was so familiar McCoy couldn't help but feel a stab of sympathy. Spock was an impossible patient, "He shouldn't be, but he is. He's fighting the trance. I put him under with the strongest sedative I dared to give him and it barely slowed him down. It also made him so sick I don't dare give it to him again. If he vomits like that again he'll tear open all his internal injuries. He asked for you. I thought maybe if you talk to him…."

M'Benga's voice trailed off on a hopeful note.

"All right," McCoy replied, squaring his shoulders as if he were going into battle, "I'll talk to him. I think I know what's bothering him. I won't promise it will make him go under though."

M'Benga nodded grimly.

Spock was lying stiffly on his back. From the hard set of his jaw and his closed eyes, his slightly furrowed brow and deep concentration, McCoy knew the Vulcan was indeed fighting the healing trance.

"Are you out of your green-blooded Vulcan mind?" McCoy demanded, "Stop it right now and go into hibernation, or whatever that spooky healing voodoo is. That's an order, from your CMO."

Spock came to alertness at the sound of McCoy's voice. Dark eyes snapped open and within in them was a look of such intensity that McCoy had only glimpsed before. The monitor above Spock's bed went wild, betraying the inner battle Spock was waging.

"The Captain…. His condition," the words were clear but clipped.

McCoy knew a certain satisfaction that he had guessed what was keeping the Vulcan awake.

"It wasn't good, though I'm not giving you the details now. He's in recovery. Critical but stable. He's not going anywhere and neither are you. Now shut up and go to sleep."

"The ship?" Spock ignored the doctor's order.

"Also stable and not critical," McCoy said, "And so is the bridge crew. Everyone is fine." Not quite but Spock didn't need the whole truth of that yet, "Scotty has an investigation going and you know he won't rest until he finds out who did this. Oh, and Daphne was released to her quarters where she's resting."

"Good," Spock said, his voice was becoming firmer. The arrows pulsing above his head had settled down, "Now help me up."

"God Almighty, Spock!" McCoy burst out, "Are you trying to kill yourself after we barely put you back together! Get back in that bed. That's an order!"

"I have no intention of being in a coma while the ship is in danger and the Captain is incapacitated," Spock had made it as far as swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "I ask you to respect that."

"I respect the attitude," McCoy said, "But I'm not going to allow it and you're not strong enough to stop me."

Spock shot the doctor a look that had nothing of Vulcan's 5000 years of peace in it. Darkness looked back at him, from eyes gone the color of midnight. Demons would run screaming into the night from such a look. McCoy stood his ground.

With effort, Spock got to his feet. To the casual observer he might even appear to be standing normally. McCoy was no casual observer.

McCoy grasped for the one threat he thought might still work. He was in no mood to grapple with the Vulcan, physically or verbally.

"Well why don't I just call Daphne down here and you can explain to her why you are up and walking around when you still have internal injuries healing?"

"Daphne will understand," Spock said, with quiet certainty, "She won't like it, but she will support me."

McCoy cursed to himself. He had successfully threatened Spock with Daphne's displeasure before, but apparently it had limits. When it came to the safety of the ship, she would support him. Right or wrong, McCoy had seen her stand by Spock's decisions before and Spock was almost always right.

"I need to question anyone who was in the Officer's Mess at the time of the explosion," Spock said.

"Scotty already did that," McCoy said, dismissively.

That dark, determined, level stare speared him again. McCoy would have sworn it went right through him and hit the bulkhead across the room. At this point, McCoy knew he could have the Vulcan forcibly put back in bed, which could injure him all over again; and besides that he wasn't sure what he had that would actually hold Spock there even if they could get him to lay back down.

Or he could just shadow the stubborn man until he finally collapsed and THEN put him back to bed.

McCoy was starting to feel defeated, too exhausted from the long ordeal of Jim's surgery and then checking on the other trauma patients to argue with Spock any further. Spock's aura of unquestioned authority was overwhelming, even in his weakened state.

The suffocating heat of the isolation ward was getting to McCoy, too, though ironically it was probably helping to restore Spock.

"I've no doubt that Mr. Scott did a fine job in questioning them," the First Officer said, "But he is incapable of using the same method I intend to use, if allowed."

McCoy swallowed. Mind meld.

"Spock… god damn it. It doesn't always have to be _you, _you irritating miserable pointed-eared son of Satan! Do you think any of them want to watch you kill yourself?"

"It is necessary. Their preferences are irrelevant." Implacable. Unmoved.

McCoy shook his head in defeat and muttered curses under his breath. "All right. Sulu is probably awake, you can start with him."

"No," Spock said, "First, I need to see the Captain."


	3. Chapter 3

Without being told where he was Spock walked without hesitation to the dark, quiet isolation room in which Jim Kirk lay. The captain was unconscious, though from what Spock could see of his battered, swollen and bruised condition that was most assuredly for the best. Spock went to the bed and perched uneasily on the chair beside it. McCoy hovered close by, watching anxiously. The doctor didn't know which one of them to concentrate on. Kirk's face was a mass of bruises on his pale, almost translucent skin. His breathing was slow and harsh. Spock's color was too high, shadows marked the spaces below his eyes and cheekbones. If he was breathing at all, McCoy couldn't tell. He watched the pulse in Spock's neck and it seemed fast even for him.

Closing his eyes in concentration, Spock placed the fingers of one hand on the touch points of Jim's temple and cheek, not asking this time for permission that had always been granted in the past. Kirk groaned as he became aware of the Vulcan, and of his attempt to reach into his mind.

Their thoughts flowed into each other and something shattered across Spock's mind. Shards of pain exploded across nerve endings already raw from his own injuries. It was like being struck by summer lightning in the middle of Vulcan's Forge.

Kirk was dying. A lamatya, wild and terrible, screamed inside Spock's soul. He struggled for control. He could not help either of them if he descended into that void.

Struggling with all his skill and training to deal with both Jim's pain and his own, Spock worked steadily to establish a healing mode, free of pain. He met with struggle, rebellion. The deep recesses of Kirk's mind resisted the invasion.

_NO no no no….._

_Jim!_

Hesitation. _Spock._

Spock pressed his thoughts deeper. _It is necessary._

The rebellion was put down, dissolved in the face of Kirk's courage to be that open with this one man.

In communication that moved at the speed of thought, Spock assured Jim that they were all safe, well, healing; and that he and Scott would find out what caused the explosion. They would not rest until they knew. That reassurance did more to relax Jim than all the sedatives McCoy could have ever pumped into his system. As Spock had willingly surrendered Daphne to McCoy, knowing he could do no more for her, Kirk gave the Enterprise to Spock. Just before he surrendered to the darkness that had been waiting to claim him, the thought flared between them,

_Spock…Lincoln…The gates of hell….._

The Vulcan understood and their linked minds finished the quote together,

_Shall not prevail against them._

As Spock gently broke the meld McCoy watched the monitors that told him Jim Kirk had begun to recover. Spock was relieved that those monitors held the doctor's attention. The Vulcan felt as if he had climbed a labyrinth of stairs in the midday sun.

"I don't know what you did, but his life was hanging by a thread a moment ago. Now I think the worst may be over."

Spock only nodded and slowly stood up.

"Where is Mr. Sulu?" he asked.

As McCoy took him to the area of sickbay in which the rest of the Bridge crew lay healing, he said, grumpily,

"Are you going to do that to all of them? Because you'll probably kill yourself in the process if you do!"

Spock gave him one of those sharp, dark looks that held the war drums of ancient Vulcan and McCoy fell silent. He knew when to prod Spock, when to annoy him just enough to act as a safety valve for the extreme emotional suppression the Vulcan subjected himself to.

He also knew when to shut the hell up. Wordlessly, he led Spock to Sulu.


	4. Chapter 4

Awareness of Spock was probably the one thing strong enough to rouse Daphne from the sedative-induced sleep that had claimed her hours before. She had dreamed of him, with a desperate, passionate longing.

She had never longed for anyone before, or for anything, the way she did for this one man.

Her eyes drifted open slowly to find him by the bed, bent over and pulling one his black thermal undershirts from the recycling drawer on the wall. He was naked from the waist up. His sleek bronze skin was damp, gleaming in the dim reddish light, sleek and strong and firm - and marred by dozens of barely healed cuts and gashes.

Everything else in the room seemed out of focus to her. Only Spock was sharp and clear. Perfect. Composed. As beautiful as the Thracian gods. In the fire-tinged half-light a prince of darkness moving silently. His eyes flickered with shadow and flame. Daphne felt transported from the reality of her world on board a starship. It was as if she gazed upon a man who was both very young, in terms of his natural life – and very old, as if he bore the burden of millennia upon his gashed shoulders.

Power, masculinity and the hot desert winds of Vulcan had swept into the room with him.

His hair was tousled and also damp and she realized he must have taken a shower with actual water; which meant he had either felt the need to be very clean or he was dehydrated. She wanted to run her fingers through the silky strands and hold him close to her.

He had saved her life and so she could only lay there and continue to gaze at him in wonder. A shadow slid lovingly over his shoulders and back as he stood.

He flexed his shoulders experimentally and muscles rippled.

He would burn his life out one day, protecting this ship and her crew. The premonition sent a chill spider-crawling down her spine.

"Spock?" she said, finally.

He turned to her, his eyes dark and hooded. "Did I wake you?"

Her hearing was still recovering from the explosion but his voice sounded like music to her.

"It doesn't matter," she answered, "I've never been so glad to be able to open my eyes and see someone."

She paused, shifted slightly beneath the red coverlet on his bed. Meeting his hooded gaze she said, "You're here AMA, aren't you?"

He sat down on the bed beside her, the shirt clenched in his hands.

"You could say that," he admitted, "You could also say that I am here in spite of the fact that McCoy is 'spitting mad' about it."

She smiled. "You are going to give him a heart attack someday."

"You'd think he would be used to me by now," he replied.

She reached up with her first two fingers extended and he paired his with hers. Understanding flashed between them. If anyone understood, it was Daphne. An explosion had nearly taken everything Spock held dear, everything he now considered "family", even above his Vulcan kith and clan. He would not rest until he found out what had caused it and saw justice done.

Of all the humans in his life, only Daphne knew his secret. Spock didn't control his human emotions. He fought every day to control the raging green fire that was his Vulcan blood. An attack on the Enterprise gave him a crushing and immediate intimacy with that rage. He had burst into internal flame like an oil soaked rag and she knew it. She also knew that he _must_ take action. It was the only possible solution for the black desire for vengeance that stalked him, that which could not be released and could not be endured.

She slid to the far side of the bed and pushed back the covers in invitation to join her. Her hair was a spill of molten gold, thick as lava, across the deep red sheets. Her manner was easy and relaxed, welcoming and gentle, though at the moment the fire of passion and desire were carefully banked in her gaze.

He left the black shirt abandoned on the dresser and laid down beside her. His entire being earned for her suddenly. He gathered her into his arms, pressed one chaste kiss against the jagged wound on her temple and then rested his head on the top of hers. Closing his eyes he sought to negate his solitary, self-reliance in the brilliance that was this one alien woman. Jim was denied to him. McCoy was furious with him.

But, freed of her Starfleet uniform, wearing nothing but the clinging mist of her shift, freed of constraints laid upon them by rules and regulations and the protocols that existed beyond the closed doors, Daphne waited for him.

He _had _to act. But he did not have to act alone.

Her body shaped itself to his like the soft spring breezes of San Francisco Bay, cooling him. Her hair flowed over his arm, soft against deep cuts still healing. The thin shift she wore was made of a soft, shimmery pale blue-gray material that clung to every curve, emphasizing her long waist and the heavy swell of her breasts.

The explosion, the noise, the pain, the blood, the horror all seemed to fade for the moment. All was nothing for the space of a few breaths, just because he held her warm and alive in his arms.

He stroked two fingers down her spine, back up her arm to her wrist, resting on her pulse – human slow but strong and steady. He paused, suspending his thoughts, lost in the strange, exotic alien nature of the rhythm.

"There is an eternity between your heartbeats," he observed, low and husky.

She tilted her head back to look up into warm fire lit eyes. His fingers were strong, male… Vulcan; and it was hot were his flesh met hers. She was a trained Star Fleet officer and yet Spock's hands had the power to dissolve her at the core into a puddle of fragile femininity.

"Not when you touch me," she answered. Then she kissed him and it was full of gratitude and tenderness, as soft as the caress of moonlight on water.

Her lips still close to his, she sighed lightly and said, "You need me to tell you what I remember."

It was true. She was the last one he had to question.

Daphne turned her hand so that the paired fingers lying against her wrist came to join hers. Her other two fingers clasped his so their palms were tight together. The mental link he craved as Vulcans craved water came alive between them. She felt the shimmer of his presence in her thoughts, in her body and in her blood.

"We were seated at the table by the door," she began, looking inward, "I felt you suddenly become tense, as if you heard something?" Pausing she waited for him to nod in confirmation, "You got up, very quickly, grabbed something that was on the table against the wall behind us, ran out into the hall and put it in the waste receptacle on the wall. Then you came back in, yelling for everyone to get down, Jim had flipped over a table and was yelling for me to get behind it, but you grabbed me, threw me against a wall…." She paused, blocking the thought and the memory of having four broken ribs and a broken collar bone from hitting that wall and the strength of his arm around her. Spock had saved her life. If the cost had been broken bones and bruises it was worth it. "Then the explosion, noise, _horrific_ noise, pain. I must have blacked out because the next thing I remember is Scott pulling me free from you. I couldn't hear. Everything hurt. I saw you with McCoy and there was so much blood…. You were covered in it- yours and mine."

She paused and pressed her forehead against his chest, feeling as fragile suddenly as dandelion fluff. Spock felt her shiver. He encouraged her with silence to continue.

"I woke up in sickbay. That young doctor, one of the newly assigned crew that we picked up at K7 last month…. Levine. Dr. Levine. He had taken care of me, released me to go back to my quarters. I wanted to stay, because of you and Jim but sickbay was in an uproar. I think you can imagine. So I went to my quarters but I couldn't rest at all, so I came here, to yours."

Not quite able to express it in words she gave him her thoughts. Her quarters were small, industrial, Star Fleet standard issue. She had done little to personalize them beyond her small collection of artifacts and reproductions. Spock had recreated Vulcan in his – the planet they both called home.

"I waited here… it seemed forever, until Chapel contacted me to say you were out of surgery and they were waiting for you to assume the healing trance." She paused again and looked up to give him a rueful smile,"I didn't tell them not to bother waiting. Then after another eternity, Dr. Levine came to find me and told me Jim was out of surgery as well, stable but still critical. He gave me something to help me sleep and that is all I remember until I woke up and found you here."

Daphne studied his face in the subdued lighting. Perhaps it was her imagination but his normal bronze color seemed paler, tinted with lime-green. The skin between his elegantly slanted brows was furrowed. In pain or concentration she did not know. The shadows of his eyelids looked like bruises.

"You need to rest," she said.

"I am resting," he replied, but he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. She watched the ripple of muscle along his jaw line and the slight crinkling of his eyes at the corner that told her he was struggling against pain. Tremors ran along the muscles of his bare arms. Along their fragile, slender mental bond, she felt nothing.

But she was just as guilty of blocking him, so she let it go.

Daphne slid her hand across the flat hard muscles of his stomach and let it rest over the quiet thunder of his heart.

"You are lying down," she said, "That isn't exactly resting for a Vulcan. I know you've questioned everyone, driven McCoy to the edge of his sanity, most likely you have hounded Mr. Scott for every last detail of his investigation. You've had a shower and now you are lying down. Have you eaten?"

"No. I am not certain I should."

"Let me bring you something liquid then, something hot."

He watched her slide from the bed, sensually, like a sunning lioness disturbed by the arrival of a lion. He started to tell her that she should not wait on a man who is not hers and stopped. They had spoken no formal vows, never said a word to each other of being exclusive.

But he _was_ hers.

The last time he had come to his quarters and found her asleep in his bed they had barely exchanged two words, unless one were to count _"oh gods, Spock."_. His memory of what had transpired between them was of something more than a little physical. Her reaction had made him wonder just how sound proof the bulkheads actually were. She had fallen asleep again almost immediately afterwards, wrapped securely in his arms; and while Spock rarely slept it had given him a profound sense of peace to watch her do so.

He was hers. He belonged body and soul to a woman with delicate shell-shaped ears and honey-gold hair, whose wit and intelligence and confidence matched her charm and courage; whose passion and vulnerability were real; who stood by his side and backed him because she understood and sometimes even when she didn't understand. Her frank gaze was often like an interrogation. She was honest and open with him and could actually answer a direct question with a direct answer.

Vulcans would say he had found the other half of his soul. Humans would say he was in love.

Either way he was hers.

She returned to the bed and perched on the edge, holding a heavy mug with steam coming from the top in one hand. The skin on her hand was pale, stretched tight over the delicate bone beneath. She was more stressed than she was letting on.

He sat up and let her arrange some pillows behind him, mostly because she needed to.

Pain. His entire body throbbed with it. Cruel fingers of pain twisted him to incoherence and mocked his repeated, mental insistence that pain did not exist. It pounded him without mercy. His eyes were dark with his body's reflexive need to heal. His dominant Vulcan genetic makeup warred with him over surrendering to the healing trance or continuing the relentless pursuit of those who would harm his shipmates. He placed the fingers of his left hand over his own temple, closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

He won the war. _This_ time. There would be no stopping for the healing trance and there would be no violence, no concession to the need to destroy. But when he opened his eyes, anxiety was blazing forth from Daphne's like the midday sun. Light from his meditation flame flickered across her frozen features, but her eyes spoke to him of fear.

He laced long fingers into her blond hair, spun gold heavy and silky against his palm. He ran his hands through the strands, separating them, letting the flow of liquid satin glide through his fingers. He stroked his thumb gently down the ragged cut on her cheek.

"_Pthak svi'zherka ,dan-karik heh dan-khrashik," _he murmured softly, the words coming easier to him his native language.

"No, Spock," she answered just as softly, "It is not fear that is the strongest emotion, or the most violent. It is love."

Her body molded to his as he pulled her forward to rest lightly against him, separated only by the thin fabric of her shift. Her head fit into the curve of his shoulder and for a moment they sat in silence. He felt alive suddenly, in spite of the pain, and filled with tenderness so acute that even his scorching need for action must wait in the face of it.

"Let me help you with the pain," she begged him, in a voice so low even Vulcan ears barely heard it.

As an empath, Spock knew his lover had the ability to take some of the pain from him. But then she would know the true extent of his agony and he wouldn't allow that.

He shook his head slowly. "No. I have control now. We should not do anything to disrupt that control."

She leaned forward and gave him a light kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Is that what I do to you? Disrupt your control?"

One eyebrow lifted minutely. "Relentlessly," he answered.

She gave him the cup then with a slight smile and the single caution, "Be careful. It's hot."

He tried it experimentally and discovered it was hot chocolate – a beverage favored on Earth, the planet they shared but had spent little time on. He finished it in a few long swallows. It burned on the way down and spread warmth throughout his insides. The caffeine and sugar in it would boost his metabolism. She must have known that.

She pulled her legs up and curled up next to him on the bed, sitting up, still facing him.

"Tell me about the investigation?" she prompted.

"I intended to," he answered, settling his abused back against the pillows, "I want you to check my logic."

Her eyebrows disappeared beneath her fringe of bangs in astonishment. "You want me to check _your _logic? How bad was that blow to your head?"

"It was bad enough," Spock admitted, "But has nothing to do with my request. My logic may be …compromised by the circumstances and people involved."

He was forced to pause as the rush of hot blood and ancient war drums thundered in him again. The images of his bridge crew lying in their beds in sickbay would haunt him, had always haunted him in one form or another for years. The almost reality of their deaths shook the idea that Vulcans were now bred to peace. In Spock's eyes Daphne saw every bit of his savage heritage – 5000 years repressed but 5 million years deep in his genetic code. His breathing, his color, the surge of impressions along their bond link betrayed him. He thought of the crew of the Enterprise as his _clan_, and Daphne as his bond mate. Jim and McCoy were his _t'hyla – _brother/friend_. _The need to defend, to protect was strong in him.

With a small chill Daphne realized Spock was now in command of a starship, with the power to destroy the population of a planet. Deliberately she refused to look at the display of weapons on the wall. She knew they were not decorative. Spock had taught her to use many of them, though their mastery was many practice hours away. She was good with the _ahn-woon_. She couldn't even lift the _lirpa_. Spock handled it has if it were made of down feathers.

She reached out, drawing him back with her touch, running her fingers through soft night-dark hair, still uncharacteristically tousled, and then along the edge of one fine upswept ear. Something in Spock's stone-carved expression changed, though it was difficult to say just what the change was. Along the gossamer thread of their mind link, she took the violence and anger into herself and let it dissipate. and she drew him back.

"Spock," she elongated the word, giving it the proper Vulcan inflection. _Spaahk._ "Logic has many forms. There is the form in which – if A then B and if not A then not B. That I think is the form you are the most comfortable with," she paused, watching his face for the subtle flickers of expression that betrayed his thoughts. "Then there is the form of logic that makes a full Vulcan Ambassador choose an Earth woman half his age as his wife. Both are legitimate forms,"

All she saw in the dark depths of his eyes was the reflection of his meditation flame. His face had gone from being nearly bronze earlier, to translucent with a lime-green tint. Now she watched a fine, clear olive flush spread over his chest and rise up his throat to his jaw, over his high cheekbones and into his forehead. She reached for his wrist and laid her hand on it. He was already hot. A human would be raving. But it seemed to her that he was warmer than usual. Feverish and not much McCoy could give him that wouldn't make him nauseous on top of everything else.

She suppressed her anxiety, drew a long silent breath and let it out slowly.

"Tell me what you heard, in the Mess that made you act? What was on the table behind us that you put in the waste receptacle?"

"A tool box, from Engineering. I heard something click, as if it was setting itself, then noises that no tool box should be making."

"So it was bomb disguised as a common tool box?"

"Yes, though none are missing from the tool lockers, no one has signed any out and the Officer's Mess was not scheduled for maintenance or repairs."

"My impression is that the explosion was short, loud and fast. That would involve a high explosive or combination of high explosives, in concentrated amounts to fit in a container that small," she observed. "The Surveillance systems? Did they reveal anything?"

"They have been rigged to appear functional, but nothing has been recorded in that room for the last seventy two hours," he leaned his head back and gazed at the ceiling, deliberately silent for a moment, ignoring the rolling agony and desperate desire to lay down, "Consider, _k'diwa_, there is no one on board the Enterprise who is not Star Fleet cleared. With the exception of the nine personnel who joined the ship at K7 thirty nine days ago, and twenty seven others we lost to normal reassignments, this crew has been together as a cohesive unit for three point seven five years. Yet a deliberate attack has been made on the senior bridge crew. There is no doubt this was meant to kill as many of us as possible."

He looked at her again, "It is possible I am being paranoid, but I do not think so. I suspect something far deeper at work here than a simple assassination attempt. There is no logic in it. There is nothing any individual can gain from the deaths of Alpha shift, individually or as a group. If it was not one of the nine new assignees, then it had to have been a longtime member of this crew. If that is true, then this is either something that has been planned over a considerable amount of time; or someone or something has negatively influenced a member of this crew to the point of inciting mutiny and murder."

The reality hit her hard. It had not been an accident. Someone had tried to kill her brother, her lover and her closest friends. He watched the play of emotions in her golden brown eyes and waited as she worked through denial, rage and helplessness until at last arriving at resignation. She met his gaze. There was a fire to match his burning in the tawny depths of her eyes now. The lioness was no longer sunning. She was alert, her senses heightened, on the hunt.

"There are other possibilities,'" she said, holding her voice steady, "Insanity. Alien influence. A paid assassin. One of our crew members has been replaced somehow. I am sure you already calculated the odds against those?"

He nodded slowly. "Yes. Those possibilities surely exist but not as probabilities."

He fell silent, contemplating. The fact that he didn't instantly start quoting the odds for each possibility was disturbing.

"There is only a single flaw in your logic," Daphne said, finally, causing his eyebrow to lift infinitesimally, "You are seeking a logical reason for someone to want to kill one or more of us. You want to know what can be gained by are deaths. For some humans, and species like Romulans or Klingons, the reason for such an act would BE the death."

Her eyes demanded honesty. He knew about vengeance. He may be 5000 years bred to peace, but he knew the desire for revenge.

His hand came up to lie gently along the side of her face. His beautiful, long-fingered, masculine hand … one of the things she loved most about his body. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against it, trying to ignore how blisteringly hot he felt. She knew Spock. She knew his heartbeat and his breathing and just how warm he normally felt.

She also knew that loving him meant letting him do what had to be done for the sake of his Vulcan soul.

"Yes," he said, softly, "I can acknowledge that there may not be a recognizable logical reason for the act."

Daphne opened her eyes and took a long, deep breath. She gave him a look that laid her open heart in his hands.

"Could we please get dressed and continue this investigation, so that you can heal?"

"I…believe," he spoke very slowly and deliberately,"that can be arranged."


	5. Chapter 5

Spock strode onto the bridge as if he owned it. He was purposeful, direct, moving straight to his science station without a word or glance. The Bridge was running smoothly, efficiently. He knew that without looking. Beta shift had been performing at well over 100 % efficiency. They were determined to do well, making up for the temporary loss of the Alpha shift. Spock did not understand the impulse. But he had seen it before, and in this case it worked to his advantage. They snapped reports to him about course, speed, and estimated time of arrival at Star Base 11 without being asked. Lt. Brent slid out of the center seat and resumed his position at navigation, but Spock went to his science station, inserted a disc into a slot and bent over the viewer.

The last few hours had produced little in the way of useful information. The explosive had been composed of items common to a starship but mixed in just the right proportion to be lethal. It indicated someone with a working knowledge of chemistry, or at least of explosives. They had begun questioning the members of the science division, though the idea that it could have been a member of his own team had filled Spock with a rage so terrible it had taken him long long moments to contain and conquer it. He had remained utterly still, barely holding on to the foul impulse, white-hot and tearing inside him. The stress of mastering that passion and holding the ache of his bruised body at bay had nearly driven him to his knees. So he had remained still, reached for disciplines that had kept Vulcans at peace for millennia, and finally been able to move and function again.

But even now he had to school himself to dispassion before studying the images in the viewer, images of the Officer's Mess – a place of peace, laughter, camaraderie, a place the humans in his life had cherished, in which they had felt safe. He was looking for evidence that would lead him to the perpetrator of the destruction that had taken this room from them and almost killed them all. There was no place for emotion in the investigation.

Still, the while the sight of his own blood splashed across the wall did nothing to excite the ancient need for vengeance in his DNA, the liberal pools and streaks of red did. The Vulcan mantras for peace repeated over and over in his head as he looked for the truth among the twisted ruins.

Perhaps it was his concentration on peace that disturbed the iron fist he had kept locked around his injured body. Shudders began to convulse down his back and legs. Pain shattered the inside of his skull and brilliant lights exploded behind his eyes. Nausea rose so quickly he barely stopped it. Pain uncoiled and crashed over him like a wave breaking on the rocks.

All that time Spock was riveted in place. No one watching would have any indication that he was doing more than focusing on his viewer.

_Control, _even his thoughts seemed like the crunch of boots on ground glass, _What is, IS. What must be done, MUST be done. Control conquers pain. Control transcends….._

"Commander?" Daphne's voice cut across those thoughts like the rush of a cool breeze across the midday sun.

Spock straightened slowly, like a panther disturbed at a kill. He had not heard the lift doors open, but Daphne was standing in front of them, having clearly just arrived on the Bridge.

Her clear gold eyes met his without flinching; and though he looked directly back at her, lights and shadows still danced in his vision and he could barely see her.

"There is new information in the investigation. I had it transferred to the computer in the Briefing Room. If you would join me there at your convenience?" His sharp ears focused on her voice and let it guide him across the Bridge to her side.

"I will come now. Lt. Brent, you have the con."

He heard the lift doors swish open, walked forward on instinct alone, and knew that Daphne walked beside him. He waited until the doors closed before falling back against the wall and sinking to the floor, groaning involuntarily. It was like a giant had slammed a fist into the sunset, sending shards of red light and black darkness to explode inside him. He drew his knees up tight, clamped his hands on either side of his head and dropped his head forward.

Hands, silken and cool, gentle but firm, covered his. Daphne. Kneeling before him, reaching for him, touching him, leaning forward, her face close to his, her forehead…..

"No," he dragged the single syllable out of his dry throat like it was being dragged over gravel.

"You can put me on report later!" she snapped, and then her forehead was pressed to his.

The moment her empathic receptors touched him, the pain ran molten into her essence, dissolved like metal in the fires of the god Vulcan. It dissolved into her, pulled from him. Desperately he sought to shield it from her, but she was strong in her empathic power, determined and would not yield. She had reached the Queens level and the eighth square and checkmated him.

Daphne cried out, once, and the sound pierced his hearing and went straight to the protective depths of his Vulcan heart. He came to his senses to find that he was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. A glance told him the lift had been taken off line.

Daphne, his soul's bond-mate, lay collapsed with her head on his thigh. Normally she was beautifully, vibrantly alive. Life radiated from her golden eyes and the smile that lay in them, even when it did not touch her generous mouth. Now she was limp, her body rising and falling in deep ragged breaths. Silence lay between them like the scorched air after a lightning strike.

He stroked one hand over her wheat blond hair, moving it away from her face. The curve of her neck seemed almost hopelessly vulnerable beneath the upswept golden waves.

His body still whimpered to him of injuries that needed to heal but it no longer hammered and roared. He took a moment and regained control; and in that moment she also recovered, sitting up shakily but meeting his gaze with her typical fearless courage. He continued brushing her hair with his fingers, long, strong, masculine fingers filled with mystery and mastery.

"You knew," he stated it, bluntly.

"Specify," she requested.

"About the pain."

"Your shields are slipping," she replied, matching his honesty and level tone," though not so badly yet that anyone on board with the slightest telepathic ability would know." There was still boldness in her eyes, but not accusation, "It would take someone in an intimate relationship with you, someone who knows you well and shares a connection. Only someone who loves you would know."

He nodded. She put her hands on his shoulders and bent her head to fit in the hollow beneath his collar bone. She rested there for a while, trying to forget the memory of the searing agony he had been enduring. Tears blurred her vision but she denied them, refusing to let them fall.

"_Spock,_" she whispered.

In his dimly lit recovery room, Jim Kirk stirred for the first time in hours. His head tossed. His body tensed and shuddered as if he would rise. His lips formed one single word, "_Spock…."_

The monitor in McCoy's office that was connected to Kirk's biobed went off with no warning. McCoy leaped to his feet and dashed out the door. It might be Kirk's monitor, but somehow McCoy knew – he _knew – _it wasn't Jim he needed to find.

That green-blooded devil's spawn…..

"Spock," he muttered it under his breath like a curse.


	6. Chapter 6

When the lift doors finally opened again they found McCoy waiting in front of them. He was no engineer, but the doctor did know how to track the lifts. He was glaring at them with barely contained fury.

"Can either of you tell me why this lift just took nearly 10 minutes to get here from the Bridge?"

"You exaggerate. It was only 7.25 minutes," Spock replied. The Vulcan was serene. His skin tone was utterly normal. The dark eyes beneath the sharp slash of slanted brows were clear.

McCoy was waving a scanner over both of them, frowning. _Something _had happened. He doubted that the two of them had chosen this odd moment, with Spock in questionable physical health, to have a clandestine intimate encounter in a stopped lift. He had a hard time envisioning the Vulcan _ever _doing such a thing.

"You're going to be bleeding internally again if you don't stop soon," McCoy groused. He turned his fury on Daphne, "You said you would watch him."

Spock shot Daphne a look from under one lifted eyebrow. She ignored him. She was annoyed. To a certain extent she had begun to love this "good ole country doctor." But at times he had the worst beside manner of any doctor she had ever met. His words about Spock had hit her like a hammer blow to the midsection.

"I _am_ watching him, doctor," she said.

Her voice was very low and very soft. Spock, at least, knew that meant she was very, very angry. He remained silent and fixed his gaze on the ceiling for a moment. McCoy was too busy waving the scanner around her and frowning at it to notice her narrowed gaze.

Daphne tolerated the action. Nothing that had just occurred would show up physically. In the same low tone she said, "If you have some idea how to make him stop that doesn't involve another blow to his head, I will consider it."

That made the other eyebrow rise.

McCoy was about to continue flaying them alive with his tongue, giving full vent to his frustration, when Spock's next words jerked him to a halt.

"Since you are here, doctor, perhaps you would accompany us to the crewman's level? Lt. Caras has just informed me that Lt. Madison Ross has been found dead in her quarters."

While going to fetch him personally had been a ploy to get him off the Bridge and with her, Daphne really did have new information in the investigation; and not the kind of information that could be given over an open comm channel. After being alerted that Lt. Ross had not reported for duty or answered any attempts to contact her, Security had forced the door and discovered the young woman lying on her bed, dead of an apparent suicide. The only positive outcome of the discovery was that McCoy started complaining that he had not been notified immediately, which meant that he let Spock alone for a while. Perhaps only Daphne saw the flicker of relief on Spock's face, deep in his eyes, mingled with his frustration at the death of a crew member. That was only because she shared those emotions with him.

They worked side by side in the science lab, with the science and security teams that were trying to reconstruct the pieces of the bomb and track the ingredients. The effort distracted them from the time being taken up by the autopsy, made the waiting bearable.

At last McCoy contacted Spock from sickbay.

"You need to get down here," the doctor said, gruffly. "Bring Lt. Caras."

For the briefest moment Daphne panicked, thinking that something had happened to Jim. Her eyes flew to Spock, begging him silently for reassurance.

Spock seemed unfocused briefly, looking inward, along some secret path only he knew how to find. When he looked back at her, his face was serene and he shook his head slightly. Not Jim. She breathed again for the first time in that long frozen moment of uncertainty. Whatever McCoy wanted, it had nothing to do with Jim.

The doctor was in a state of agitation, shifting from foot to foot and pacing like a demented parrot. Spock responded as he always did – in the exact opposite manner. He was as cool and composed as a glacier lake.

McCoy appeared exhausted, frazzled, worn to the bone by his recovering patients, concern for Jim, brought to just plain helpless surrender by his recalcitrant Vulcan patient. Deep shadows marred the skin under his eyes. His face was pale as carved ivory. His vivid blue eyes were sunken and watery. His mouth was set in a stubborn line, though his hands waving and gesturing almost passionately.

"I'm not sure if this is the original Madison Ross or not," McCoy, as usual began explaining in the middle, his voice gruff, his thoughts running in a million directions at once.

"The original?" Daphne asked. Spock, more familiar with the doctor's erratic style, merely waited patiently for him to get to the point.

"This woman is certainly the one who signed aboard as Madison Ross, human, from Alpha Centauri, but she wasn't _born _human. She's been surgically altered."

Spock's eyebrows came together in a sharp V. "Surgically altered from what, doctor?" he asked.

"No way of knowing, except it had to be something humanoid. We've seen it before. Hell, we've done it before. That man on K7 during that mess with the tribbles was a surgically altered Klingon. We've altered Jim to appear Romulan, at least externally, when we stole the cloaking device. There isn't any documented proof I could get my hands on, but do either of you doubt we have altered spies passing as Klingon, Romulan and even Orion?"

Their silence confirmed their agreement. McCoy paused, gave a frustrated sigh and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. Daphne felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the doctor, a strong need to make him lie down and rest. With a sudden shock she realized the feeling was "backwashing" to her across her link with Spock. She glanced at him, but his face betrayed nothing and there was nothing else she could sense along the link. His control seemed as strong as the hull of the Enterprise at the moment.

Which meant he wanted her to know what he was feeling. McCoy may be baffling, often incomprehensible and exasperating, but Spock cared about him deeply. Without asking for permission Daphne moved towards McCoy, took his hand and placed his palm against her forehead.

Brittle shards of anger and frustration exploded across her empathic senses. Beneath those lay bone-weary exhaustion and anxiety. She drew them into herself, only vaguely aware that the intensity was making her collapse, her own legs buckling. She peeled away the layers of maddening emotion until they reached a point of being bearable, acknowledged them while refusing to embrace them; and then released them into the ether with all the power of her natural empathy and Thracian training.

And then beneath those dark emotions she found McCoy – kind, compassionate, with a heart and soul full of coruscating brilliance. The truth of him was like bright sunlight breaking through a thunder cloud, too intense to view with the naked eye.

Daphne stayed there, basking in that light for a moment. Love of life radiated from him and she knew that the creases around his eyes and mouth were from laughing with joy far more often than he frowned at seemingly everything.

She separated from him almost reluctantly, leaving him with as much peace and the greatest sense of renewal and hope that she could.

His hand slipped away from her forehead and she came back into her own awareness to find Spock holding her up. He was tall and solid and secure and she leaned back against him gratefully for the briefest of moments. If the gesture gave away the intimacy of their relationship, she didn't care. The fact that they were lovers was the worst kept secret on the Enterprise, and certainly McCoy already knew.

McCoy put his hand under her elbow and steadied her back to her feet. He met her eyes briefly, looked down and then back up.

"I didn't know that's how that worked," he said, gruffly. "Thank you."

Daphne hesitated before answering. She still didn't know the doctor very well, was still trying to unravel the inner workings of the odd friendship between her brother, this man and the Vulcan to whom she had sworn her heart. But Jim and Spock clearly trusted him, and she had just experienced the kindness hidden behind the gruff exterior.

"Six years ago I discovered my father's family, and found out I had two brothers," she spoke slowly, thoughtfully, "I lost one before I ever got a chance to know him. I took this assignment so that I could get to know the other one before Fate intervened."

McCoy met her tawny gold eyes and for the first time realized how much they were like Jim's. The soot-black lashes may be longer and tipped with more gold, but the courage, brashness and spirit reflected in their depths was the same.

Though right now those same eyes were also filled with shadows and ghosts of a past she had lost and a future that would never hold George Samuel Kirk Jr, her oldest half-brother.

She went on, boldly holding his gaze and letting him see her own emotional scars, "I almost lost Jim and I barely know him. You saved his life. I can't ever repay you for that. I can only try."

Uncertain what to do in the face of such naked honesty, McCoy put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. He glanced at Spock but the Vulcan had evidently discovered something fascinating on the wall across the room and had fixed his gaze on it.

The comm unit interrupted them.

"Security to sickbay."

"What now?" McCoy muttered. He punched the button with the side of his fist, "Sickbay! WHAT?"

There was a pause and an almost audible gulp on the other end. McCoy could do that – scare the wits out of huge, tough, battle-scarred security personnel. Daphne almost smiled. If they only knew the soft soul those harsh words concealed.

"We're looking for Lt. Caras, doctor. We were told she was in sickbay. We've found some things hidden in Lt. Ross's quarters. Anthropology can't identify them and the computer is still scanning for any matches. We're hoping Lt. Caras might be able to ID then faster."

Daphne stepped up beside the comm unit. "This is Caras. I'm on my way." She closed the channel and turned to walk out the door, Spock instantly with her.

As he fell in step beside them, McCoy asked, "Mind if I tag along?"

Spock shot him a narrow look. "Would it matter if we did?"

"Nope," McCoy answered cheerfully.


	7. Chapter 7

The "things" had been found in an ornately carved box behind a panel in a dresser, which was a hiding place designed only to be hidden from the casual observer. Inside the box was a glass bottle with a raised relief, a long lethal looking wire strung between two wooden handles that also bore marking burned into them, an assortment of tools both common and ancient, and a knife with a handle made of some ivory-like material. While the security team moved efficiently around them still ransacking the room, Daphne examined each one closely. Spock observed in silence, his hands laced behind his back and no trace of pain in his manner or expression. McCoy shifted from one foot to the other like a fidgety parrot, glancing back and forth between Spock and Daphne.

"Well?" McCoy demanded when an eternity had passed without Daphne speaking or looking at an object.

"Mur'issdie," she pronounced, with authority,"Very old." Spock lifted an eyebrow and she clarified, "As an educated guess, somewhere in the vicinity of 1700 Federation standard years."

"Mur'issdie," McCoy repeated, incredulous, "Just like that. You're not even going to verify that with the computer?"

"Lt. Caras is an expert in archaeology and ancient artifacts," Spock broke his silence finally, "If she says they are Mur'issdie, then they are."

"The Mur'issdie don't have any ties to the Federation," Daphne had ignored McCoy, her thoughts already rushing ahead to find a connection, "There are none in Star Fleet."

"Well apparently there WAS at least one," McCoy groused.

Spock was also ignoring the doctor. He was sharing a look with Daphne so intense it seemed their thoughts were passing along it.

"They are a well know assassin cult. It is a deep part of their culture, going back for millennia. It followed them into space and is one of the reasons the Federation has not sought diplomatic ties with them. It is rumored not even the Klingons will deal with them," she paused, "They do not view assassination as most of the galaxy does. For them, releasing the spirit from the prison of physical captivity is a sacred act."

McCoy spat out a sound of disgust.

"Basically humanoid, it would take little to alter one to pass as human," Spock went on.

"I don't know of any reports where they have contracted to kill outside their own though," Daphne said.

"That only means there are no reports," Spock said.

"All right, wait a minute, you two," McCoy cut in, finally catching up, "You're saying that someone planted a Mur'issdie assassin on this ship to kill the entire senior Bridge crew?"

"Or a member of it," Spock replied, "The rest being collateral damage."

"Collateral damage!" McCoy burst out, "Spock! You're talking about our Bridge crew – Uhura, Chekhov, Sulu. For god's sake Scotty and I would have been there too if we hadn't been running late!"

Spock let McCoy vent, waiting until he ran out of steam and simply stood fuming, raking one hand threw his disheveled hair.

"I was merely making an observation, doctor, not a moral judgment. Whoever hired this assassin and why, he did not seem to care how many were killed."

"But that's crazy," McCoy protested.

"Is it?" Daphne asked, "Even while I was posted on the Hood I heard the reputation the Enterprise was gaining. Is there an enemy race this ship and crew haven't thwarted? The Klingons in particular have good reason to hate this ship and yet they can no longer act against it in open aggression due to the Organians."

"Subterfuge does not seem to suit their culture however," Spock observed, "I doubt the Klingons are behind this. But Daphne is correct. There are any number of other possibilities."

"It is too personal to be the act of a government, or even a group," Daphne said, shaking her head, "This was vengeance. I do not know who the target was, and we cannot know that without more information. But this was a deliberate act on the part of a single person, aimed at taking life not damaging the ship. I think there is little doubt that the perpetrator may have been Lt. Ross, whoever she really was; but she was only hired to do it."

All the eyes in the room suddenly rested on Spock. With Kirk still recovering, he was their commanding officer. The next move was now firmly in his hands. McCoy was watching the Vulcan with particular intensity. Spock had never made any secret of the fact he did not seek command of a starship. But at the moment something was driving him, hard, and McCoy suspected that he would not willingly relinquish the Enterprise to anyone.

But McCoy also knew the extent to which the Vulcan was controlling his physical condition and that made his command decisions subject to scrutiny as far as the doctor was concerned.

"Spock," McCoy said, trying to sound reasonable but dropping his voice so only the Vulcan should be able to hear him, "Do you want me to give you something? Pain medication? Anything?"

The First Officer shook his head emphatically. "No." A pause, contemplation and for a moment McCoy got a glimpse of what it was costing Spock to stay on his feet. "It will only dull my thought process and turn my stomach."

McCoy grunted. He had thought of that, but his need to act and to fix anything that was broken was nearly as strong as Spock's. "All right," he conceded, "It probably would at that."

Spock's eyebrows lifted. "You agree with me?"

"Yes. Surprised?"

He appeared to be considering the sudden turn of events. "It is perhaps not as unexpected as one would think, since you rarely do that which is expected to begin with," Spock observed, "and I harbor little hope that this one agreement will serve as some precedent for the future."

The CMO took a long, long look at his friend and colleague and then grinned, "You better believe it won't."

Spock gave the doctor a withering look and then crossed the short distance to the comm unit on the wall.

"Bridge," he said.

"Kyle here, sir."

"Set a course for the Mur'issdie star system. Best possible speed."

"Aye, sir."


	8. Chapter 8

Since the incident in the lift Daphne had not left Spock's side. She was hovering while trying not to appear to do so. She had briefly visited Jim, though her brother was still not awake or talking, and it had been a sharp reminder of how close she had come to losing both of them. Spock may be up and walking around but that didn't mean he should be. She could lose him yet and the longer this went on the greater that possibility came to being.

They were currently on the Bridge where Spock was interfacing with his alter ego, the ship's computer. She had an excuse to be hovering at least. They were researching the patterns and language of the runes and markings on the items found in the dead Mur'issidie's quarters. At times he would pause to send information to his science monitor and peer into it intently. The odd blue light cast him in shadows. His brow was furrowed in concentration. He looked demonic, possessed. If he occasionally closed his eyes or the muscles of his jaw tightened against the pain, it was probably only Daphne who noticed. During one such pause as he swallowed convulsively and the veins on the back of his hands stood out like sharp lines of malachite in rock, she had laid her hand gently on his arm.

"Spock?" she queried softly.

"I am fine," he said, shortly. She had sighed to herself. 'I am fine' could also mean 'except that I am bleeding internally' because, of course, in Vulcan logic an untold truth was not a lie. She had begun to suspect that, after his earlier slip into pain, he was now aware of the symptoms that warned of it. There was nothing she could do but shadow him, watch him as she had promised McCoy.

As for McCoy, he had discovered that the altered Mur'issdie woman had died of slow poison. Information on the actual Mur'issdie culture was scant, but no one had been able to find anything to indicate suicide was part of the assassination ritual, not even in the case of failure. Besides, as Spock had pointed out, even though one attempt to kill some or all of the Bridge crew had failed, the imposter would have had additional opportunities. If she had not died, she would not have been discovered.

Therefore, the only logical conclusion was that whoever had hired the assassin had also arranged for her to die as well. The knowledge had flooded Daphne with confusion and rage. The ability to be that cold hearted, that calculating, that ruthless was beyond her. Instinctively she had sought Spock, falling into his eyes because she could not fall into his arms. There she found an answering rage, though not an answering confusion. He knew how someone could seek such revenge. The sands of Vulcan had once run green with the desire for it. It was taking judicious use of Vulcan Disciplines and meditation to deny the stirrings of it in his blood.

Since they were unable to question the assassin directly they were left with nothing more than the artifacts she had left behind. With the images fed into the computer they were hoping to narrow down a location within the Mur'issdie solar system. The Mur'issdie lived on a series of moons around a central planet, each clan claiming a different moon while some lived in uneasy peace on the planet itself. A search of each moon would take months if not years if they could not find a clue as to their assassin's identity.

The bright spot in everyone's universe was the slow but steady recovery of the Bridge crew. Chekhov was scheduled to be released later that day and was already complaining that he was ready to go _now. _McCoy testily informed the young ensign that _he _would decide when he was ready and, besides, they were en route to Mur'issdie so they hardly needed a navigator right away. Sulu and Uhura were back on duty but helping with the investigation. Spock had assigned them to discover just who Lt. Ross had ever been, if a real human woman from Alpha Centauri had ever actually existed. The pair had gone off to the ship's library with grim determination on their faces.

When things began snapping into place it seemed to happen all at once. Uhura, through her extensive network of fellow communication officers and relay stations within the Federation, found out that there never had indeed been a real Lt. Ross, born on Alpha Centauri, graduated in the upper middle of her class at the Academy and been assigned to the Enterprise 3 years previously. As nearly as they could determine, the switch must have occurred at some time during an extended shore leave six months previously.

Daphne tracked the runes on the knife handle to a clan living on the seventh moon of the planet Mur, Isdaria. The first thing Chekhov was assigned to do on returning to duty was chart a course for the moon through the Mur'issdie solar system. The Russian applied himself to the task with unusual enthusiasm.

The Enterprise arrowed straight and true towards the answers its crew so desperately sought.


	9. Chapter 9

It was Uhura who reacted first. There was the sound of the lift swishing open and then her gladdened cry.

"Captain!"

Every eye turned to find Jim Kirk bounding onto the Bridge like a tiger reclaiming his territory. He didn't acknowledge the small cheer that rippled around the room, dismissing the breech of military etiquette as if he hadn't heard. Daphne was aware of the waves of relief and pure joy the sight of their Captain had produced. She was feeling the same thing.

Kirk strode over to Spock, who had risen when his commander came onto the Bridge. Gilt brown eyes met and held the midnight velvet ones of his First Officer.

"McCoy tells me you should be in sickbay," Kirk said, bluntly. He looked like he wanted to sock the Vulcan in the jaw and haul him down there himself, "Where do you think you should be?" Jim's tone softened only slightly at the end.

"Here," Spock replied.

Daphne looked from one to the other. The energy between the two men crackled like phaser fire, though she sensed it was not deadly or dangerous. They were both men who had both risen to a position of power – one consumed by the same restless energy she felt in her own heart, the other a mountain of strength and stability – perhaps only they understood what passed between them in that one long steady look.

She had learned that Jim valued Spock for the same things that McCoy chided him for – his 'alienness.' McCoy seemed to think Spock would have been much better off choosing the walk a Terran path, embracing emotion and his mother's heritage. Jim, on the other hand, accepted and seemed to cherish the fact that his First Officer was not human. He may not understand him all the time, but he didn't need to.

This was one of those times.

Kirk nodded and there was a collective sigh of relief on the Bridge, though it was a relief tempered by the knowledge that their First Officer needed to be in sickbay. He looked around the Bridge, at the collective sets of eyes watching him, waiting for orders. His manner was calm, assertive, determined. Daphne knew that women found her brother handsome. Even being his sister didn't stop her from seeing it. But there was something about Jim Kirk, an intensity too unorthodox to call him merely good looking, something that made him powerfully attractive as a man and as a leader.

Something that made people like McCoy and Spock willingly lay their loyalty at his feet.

Kirk gave them all a crooked grin, hazel eyes lit with humor and intelligence, shimmering over with the depths of his experience and power to command.

"All right," he said, "Can someone tell me where the hell we're going?"


	10. Chapter 10

It was a desolate place. It had been unpromising when approached from space – a dull, brown sphere clouded by atmospheric disturbance. Shifting clouds made it impossible to accurately determine what was land mass and what was water by vision alone. Bent over his viewer, Spock gave them a clipped analysis. The planet was borderline Class M, but the atmosphere was breathable and the gravity within acceptable limits. It was 92% desert, with scattered settlements around a single large body of water in the northern hemisphere that was currently on the day side of the small moon.

Kirk took his landing party –Spock, Daphne and Chekhov - to the largest such settlement. They were dressed as natives, in light robes and sandals. Daphne had a filmy veil over her head and wrapped around her shoulders. Kirk was making the best of it, managing to walk without tripping on the flapping edges of fabric around his ankles and endure the gritty sand between his toes. Chekhov was simply following along behind them, trying not to grin. Spock and Daphne moved no differently than they did in their uniforms.

Spock and Daphne also appeared oblivious to the heat. Jim was hoping there was some relief from it when night fell. The watery sun was slipping away behind the distant hills. The settlement was made up of sandstone and brick buildings, common in desert environments. With typical bravado and charm Jim had soon found directions to a public gathering place that served food and drink and where he hoped they could get information.

They found a large room, noisy and filled with Isdarians, the natives of this moon. There were low tables with small cushions surrounding a central fire pit. Several animal carcasses on spits were being turned over the low burning fire. The place smelled of bodies and burning carcasses and something strongly alcoholic. A group of drummers was pounding out a slow erotic rhythm that competed with the constant drone of voices and bursts of drunken laughter.

Daphne wrinkled her nose and glanced at Chekhov, who looked equally discomfited. He shrugged at her. It didn't matter. Jim Kirk had led them here and they'd all follow him into fire and brimstone. So in they went.

Kirk found a table in the back, as far from the fire pit as possible.

Fortunately for them, their server was female – a dark-eyed beauty whose alluring gaze lingered on Jim from beneath long dark lashes. He had instantly unleashed the lethal masculine appeal that had served him so well in the past. The smile he gave her was normally reserved for recalcitrant diplomats and gorgeous women.

His crew had watched the not-so-subtle flirtation between Captain and native beauty, the casual banter that would no doubt result in them getting exactly the information they had come for until Chekhov had leaned over and whispered to Daphne,

"I give him twenty minutes."

"Twenty?" Daphne whispered back, "I think you are under estimating him."

As it was, it took twelve minutes by Spock's precise calculations before Jim was showing their voluptuous server the knife and the runes carved on it. She gave him a smile full of promise and disappeared into the crowd. She returned with another woman, older –practically ancient in a culture that scorned keeping the spirit trapped in a physical existence- with her head covered by a dark veil. Jim's smile changed from charming and seductive to charming and respectful. The woman refused to give a name, but she turned offered them her bare wrist – a gesture they had discovered was a sign of trust and peaceful intent – and revealed a tattoo there that matched one of the runes carved on the knife.

They had found the clan of their would-be assassin.

It took slightly longer for Jim to extract the more detailed information they needed. He kept to a carefully crafted script, as they had been uncertain of their own safety. He told their assassin's clanswoman that they had found the knife when they found her dead body, an apparent accident, on board a starship. Though they were from Off-World, they knew the importance of returning the knife and informing her kin that her soul had been freed. Suspicion had lain heavy in the old woman's eyes at first, though she seemed satisfied enough that her kin had died after the successful completion of her sacred duty. A few mugs of the thick green alcohol later and her tongue had loosened enough for Jim to start asking leading questions. For example, why had the younger woman decided to take an assignment Off-World?

Their answer had been a listless shrug.

"Who can know why the young do anything?" the Isdarian woman asked rhetorically. "It was not a task I wanted her to accept."

"Why?" Jim asked. His tone was casual, but his gaze was that of a tiger stalking prey.

"The woman who made the request was not here to ask for a soul to be freed, it was not an act of love and mercy. This woman was filled with rage and with hatred. She burned with the need for vengeance," she paused for a moment and looked piercingly at Spock, "She was one of your kind, though she did not fit what I have always been told of the coldness and control of Vulcans, and it was one of your kind she wanted freed from physical bondage. We do not perform the sacred act on Off-Worlders."

Jim's next words were clipped. His narrowed eyes burned, too dark in his fire-lit face. His tone, hard steel over the seemingly casual words, brought every member of his command crew to instant readiness. "The task was to free the soul of a Vulcan?"

"Yes," the woman answered, signaling for a refill in her mug, "It seemed more like a request for murder though. The task should never have been undertaken."

Chekhov and Daphne were momentarily shocked silent. Hidden in the folds of their robes, Daphne sought Spock's hand – not in the paired finger tradition of Vulcan but with a purely human need to hold onto him and hold on tightly. She turned so white her skin appeared translucent, as if she might bruise at a glance. His hand shook beneath hers or a moment, then clenched as he reinforced his control.

Kirk locked eyes with his First Officer. Their thoughts seemed to sizzle in the air, as if they truly possessed some kind of telepathy.

Kirk mouthed deliberately, 'T'Pring?'

Spock shook his head emphatically just as realization dawned on Daphne's face.

"Not Vulcan," she said, "Romulan. The Romulan Commander from whom we took the cloaking device." She looked up at Spock, horror still set in her features. "I told you once, she wanted you dead then; and you told me the Rihannsu have long memories. She has apparently has not forgotten or changed her mind."


	11. Chapter 11

Flashback: One year earlier, after the events of _The Enterprise Incident_

"Daphne," Spock's voice came from across the science lab.

She turned from her computer station to find him standing tall, hands clasped behind him, facing her with the calm, steady regard that was so familiar.

"Sir?" she asked.

"Knight to d7 six," he said.

A smile pulled momentarily at the corner of her mouth. They had found, to their secret delight and the consternation of everyone else, that since they both possessed a photographic memory, they had no need of an actual physical chessboard in order to play.

"I thought perhaps you had forgotten our game," she said.

"Unlikely," he answered, "but I have been distracted of late."

Spock was well known as the master of understatement. Only he could dismiss a covert operation on the wrong side of the Romulan Neutral zone to …. _commandeer_ a piece of sensitive top secret equipment as a "distraction."

He came to stand beside her and she was instantly, shockingly, aware of him. A betraying flush washed golden over her cheeks. She turned resolutely back to her monitor and he watched her delicate fingertips move over her computer console for a moment before speaking again.

"Something has been distracting you as well," he noted, "Ever since my return."

She met his eyes again and knew he would not be put off with anything but the truth.

"May I speak to you in your office?" she asked.

He nodded and stepped out of the way so she could rise and then follow him into the small room tucked into the corner of the science lab.

It was a utilitarian office. Though he had raised the temperature and severely lowered the humidity there was nothing in here to speak of the owner. He sat in the chair behind the desk, rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and placed the tips of his fingers together. He waited, while she paced a few steps across the room and then back, ordering her thoughts. Scientifically he observed that he had often watched her brother – his commanding officer – pace in exactly the same manner while trying to think, as if the need for action was inexplicably linked to their thought processes. The family resemblance was unmistakable, both in bone structure and intensity, in dangerous intelligence and quick wit, in blazing gold-brown eyes and courage and sheer dogged determination.

She also had the same devastating effect on men that Kirk had on women, though while Kirk took full advantage of it, Daphne seemed blissfully unaware of it.

It was quite fascinating considering Jim and Daphne had only met a few years ago and still barely knew each other.

Finally she paused, took a deep breath and said,

"She wants you dead."

Spock's eyebrows reached heavenward.

"The Romulan Commander," Daphne went on, her voice and eyes fierce. She took another breath and regained a certain amount of control. "The Romulans… the Rihannsu, may be your distant cousins, k'theerazon, but they have less emotional shielding than any earthling. She is less than two decks above me and burning with hate. If I have been distracted since you returned, it has nothing to do with you. It is the presence of a woman who wants you dead, by very slow torture, preferably at her hand."

If it were possible for a Vulcan to look troubled, then Spock did. His eyebrows met in a sharp V between his hooded eyes, wrinkling the normally smooth skin of his forehead. His gaze riveted to a distant point on the far wall.

"I regret that you have had to endure such an emotional assault, k'diwa."

The words were correct. He even used the Vulcan endearment he had given her months ago. But his voice was as distant as his gaze.

"Spock," she said, drawing him back. "She got to you, reached you somehow."

He seemed to mentally shake himself. "Not in the way you might mean," He said, "You have nothing to fear from her. She is no threat to you."

After a few moments of absolute silence, she finally spoke, "I would not stop you if you chose another. But I have lived in your thoughts and no Vulcan lightly calls another 'beloved.' I fear no one when it comes to your heart. But I have been horribly aware of this Romulan Commander ever since she came on board. I fear not that I would lose you to her. There is nothing about her soul that would attract you. Her essence is …dark. Hers is a heart of darkness. You managed to touch her however, and produced an emotional response I do not think you intended. If I fear her it is because she would take you from me, by taking your life. She is furious over you. You have under estimated your power of seduction, my heart."

Spock shook his head, lacing some of his fingers and leaving only the first two paired together. "She was not seduced by me, Daphne. She was seduced by the idea of controlling a Vulcan, and a ranking Star Fleet Officer. If our current intelligence is true at all, Romulans are indoctrinated from birth to believe Vulcans are weak, easily manipulated. They are taught to believe all living Vulcans secretly wish their ancestors had left Vulcan and become Romulan. She is a Fleet Commander, highly place in the Romulan military and it is probably not just the Praetor's favor that put her there. Yet she seemed not to question my apparent desire to abandon the Federation and go with her."

"What is it about her then?" Daphne asked, lost for the first time in uncertainty where Spock was concerned. His thoughts were carefully shielded. "What did she touch in you?"

"Not her," he answered, "_Them. _The Romulans… Rihannsu. An entire ship filled with beings that look like me physically but were utterly alien to me. The Vulcans we could have been."

She shook her head. "No. I do not agree. They left the temptation to destroy and were forced to become something different in order to forge a life on a new world. They deliberately chose to become a new culture. They Vulcans who remained had no choice but to embrace peace or cease to exist as a race. Whether the Rihannsu are your distant cousins or not, they are aliens now."

He gazed inward again and said, softly, "Perhaps for now."

It took her less than sixty seconds to grasp his meaning.

"You think the Romulans can be made part of the Federation eventually, even reunited with Vulcan."

"It is a hypothesis I am considering," he replied, blandly. Then he sighed slightly, "They seem to still blame Vulcans for driving them from their home world; and the Rihannsu have long memories."

She stared at him for a long time, barely breathing. "Spock," she said, "This is hardly likely to occur even in your lifetime, and it will take a diplomat to rival your father. But right now, one of those you hope to reunite with would like to garrote you with her bare hands." She paused again and was instantly pinned by his unflinching steady stare. His dark eyes were unreadable, black velvet draped over midnight. She felt the impact of that gaze from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

"There is more," he said. Spock may not ever seek command but he used it effortlessly when he wanted to.

Silently Daphne cursed how well they had come to know each other. She could hide nothing from him. She loosely clasped her hands in front of her and studied them earnestly.

"She alternates between wanting to kill you….. and wanting to kill herself."

Her statement pierced him. He closed his eyes and sat completely still. Daphne watched him with her heart aching. He looked for a moment like a fallen angel; this man – this _Vulcan_ – who made her blood spin in warm eddies.

Spock stood, resolutely and so suddenly she took a step back. "I will go and talk to her."

Her eyes flew open wide, "Are you certain that is wise?"

"No," he admitted. "But it is what I will do anyway."

He started to leave and got as far as the door swishing open before she spoke hastily,

"Spock!"

He turned.

"Pawn to e8 six, taking your knight. Check in two moves," her wide, intelligent, seductive eyes danced, "One of us is more distracted than the other."

Spock knew a flash of desire so hot and sudden he barely controlled it. She was beautiful, exotic, which didn't interest him at all since beautiful exotic women had been throwing themselves at him since his first days at the Academy.

But a woman who could hold her own while playing the black in a mental game of three dimensional chess? Now that was…fascinating.


	12. Chapter 12

Present Day, on board the Enterprise, Captain's Quarters

"Just shut up, Spock and don't even think about it!" McCoy's eyes flashed the same blue as the sky in the eye of a hurricane,"No one in this room is going to let you run off after this woman by yourself. Not ever and certainly not in your present condition," the doctor turned his head and pinned Jim with that steely stare, "Don't let him fool you. Just because he's on his feet doesn't mean he should be."

Kirk regarded his First Office, who was sitting in a chair on the other side of his desk. He looked as grace and cool as a marble statue in a church. If Spock was hurting, it was carefully banked beneath cold, clear control. Having met Spock's parents and some of his direct family members, Jim knew that Spock had inherited all the fey handsomeness of his Vulcan genetics; tall and lean with the whip-like strength of a greyhound and the same graceful economy of movement. Women would no doubt fall at his feet if Spock so much as snapped his fingers. At the moment, Spock seemed interested in only one woman and Jim couldn't say he disapproved.

The Vulcan had positioned himself so that his back was to the wall and he was facing McCoy. It was a defensive posture, whether Spock intended it to be or not. The doctor had ambushed Spock with a tranquilizer in the past; and Vulcans had long memories too.

At any rate, Kirk doubted that he and McCoy together could wrestle with Spock physically, regardless of his weakened condition; and he wouldn't put Spock in the position of openly defying a direct order.

"Leave him alone, Bones," Jim said softly, "Spock knows what he's doing."

But the level, hazel-eyed stare Kirk gave him asked the question- 'Do you Spock? Do you really know what you are doing?' Spock's answering gaze was as unreadable as night.

"But McCoy is right," Jim went on, "You aren't going anywhere alone."

A line of tension seemed to run out of Spock's shoulders, as if allowing himself the luxury of obedience this time. Whatever he was about to say was lost in the chime of the comm system.

"Kirk," the captain said, after flipping the toggle to open the channel.

"Uhura, Captain. I have a channel open for Mr. Spock, sir," she paused for a moment and her voice changed slightly from all-business to one laced with concern, "It's Ambassador Sarek."

If Spock had a reaction none of it showed in his faced or posture. He hesitated only briefly before instructing Uhura to patch it through. Jim turned the monitor to face the Vulcan and they all waited in an atmosphere suddenly charged and anxious.

"Father?" he said.

The image of Sarek of Vulcan shimmered onto the screen, imposing but with a quiet certainty one could fall into.

"Spock," the Ambassador replied by way of greeting.

"Where is Mother?" Spock asked.

"Why would you think I have contacted you about your mother?" Sarek asked.

"Since you personally have only contacted me twice in my life, and each time it was to tell me something had happened to my mother, the logical conclusion is that the pattern continues," Spock replied.

Sarek seemed to consider Spock's logic for a moment before inclining his head slightly.

"Your mother is in Seattle, with your maternal grandmother."

Kirk and McCoy shot each other startled looks, as if it had just occurred to them that Spock _had _human relatives. Spock's hands seemed to clench briefly around the arms the chair. Other than that he remained utterly still and quiet.

"Your cousin Stephen has been kidnapped," Sarek stated bluntly,"Your grandmother was injured when he was taken. She is recovering and your mother is with her."

"And my cousin?" Spock asked.

"He is being held, here on Vulcan," Sarek went on. "In the Ruskaraya ni'reh."

Kirk almost vaulted out of his chair to hit the comm unit on the wall. Keeping his voice low as to avoid interrupting the Ambassador, he ordered the Bridge to set course for Vulcan, all speed. Spock steepled his fingers, completing his own circuit, in an effort to remain in control.

"The kidnappers demands?" Spock asked.

"Is Captain Kirk with you? This concerns him as well."

Kirk moved around to stand by Spock. "I am here, Ambassador."

"Captain Kirk," Sarek inclined his head again, ever the diplomat, "It is unfortunate that our next meeting is under such circumstances."

"What can I do to help?" Kirk asked.

And Sarek began to tell them…..

Kirk was pacing.

"It has to be her," he said, emphatically, "Why else would the kidnapper request us? Why take your cousin, _your _relative, to begin with? Why an unarmed shuttlecraft from the Enterprise?"

"Jim, sit down. You're making me dizzy," Bones growled.

He didn't like it – this ransom demand – and unless he severely underestimated the crew they weren't going to like it either.

The kidnapper wanted Kirk and Spock, alone, unarmed and in communication silence, to land a shuttle two kilometers from the place the Vulcans called Ruskaraya Ni'reh, walk the rest of the distance and wait for further instructions. The Enterprise was to retreat to the far side of T'Khut and wait.

"I agree that it must be the Romulan commander," Spock said, his eyes fixed inward as he considered all the possibilities, "There are any number of reasons a kidnapper might request you and I, but considering that she must by this time know that her assassination attempt has failed, I find it to be a sound theory that it is indeed her."

"Can't you ever just say yes?" McCoy asked.

"I believe I just did," Spock replied.

"Don't start you two," Kirk ordered, glaring at them both.

Spock turned his attention back to his captain. McCoy went to pour himself a drink and got one for Jim while he was at it.

"What do you think she wants? A simple exchange?" Jim went on, "A single Federation hostage for two high-ranking Star Fleet officers against whom the Empire has a considerable vendetta?" He paused to take the drink from McCoy, his face sober in as he contemplated old memories.

"If she did manage to capture us, or execute us, and return to the Empire, it would do much to restore her former power," Spock mused. "Only her family connections to the Praetor kept her from being executed herself."

"How the hell does she expect to get off Vulcan after all this?" McCoy demanded, "Five thousand years of peace or not, I doubt the Vulcan High Council will just roll over and play dead about this."

"Nor are they likely to fire on an unarmed shuttle carrying the only son of Sarek," Spock said softly. He glanced at Jim, "and the neither will the Enterprise, not carrying both of us, not even under direct order."

Jim sat down finally, throwing himself into the chair as if it had caused him a personal affront. He reached for the glass McCoy had poured him.

"It would be quite a feat – capture and then escape with the thieves who stole the cloaking device," Jim rubbed the back of his neck where his muscles had knotted. He drew Spock's eyes to him again with a steady gaze of his own, "How well do you know your cousin, Spock? How well is he likely to stand up to this?"

Spock folded all but his first two fingers, those he pressed together tightly.

"I know Stephen only from the occasional visits to Earth my mother and I would make. He always seemed … impulsive, intelligent," Spock paused, remembering odd days spent following his cousin through the thick green pine forests of Western Washington, so different from Vulcan, so different from the people he knew on Vulcan. Spock was barely a year older, but out of his element and at the mercy of his impetuous relative. "He always seemed very …human."

"I like him already," McCoy grunted.

"He's not likely to be panicking then?" Jim asked.

"I have not seen Stephen in quite some time. I know he was working on a historical restoration of the government buildings on Rigel 7. The Rigelians are the only other vulcanoid race in the Federation. It would have been easy for the Commander to blend in with the native population, get to know Stephen and then abduct him," Spock mused, "The last time I saw him he was 22, and had a strong compulsion towards beautiful women."

"That sounds familiar," McCoy commented, tossing Jim a look.

Jim ignored him, still focused on Spock, "Tell me where we're going? What is the place Sarek mentioned? Rusk? Ruska…?"

"Ruskaraya ni'reh," Spock answered, "The Clinging Fire. It lies near the center of Vulcan's Forge."

Spock paused to let the nature of that sink in as well as it could with humans. The center of the Forge was an endless wasteland of smothering red sand dunes; shifting, dangerous, merciless sand dunes surrounded by a wasteland of rock and sand and gravel. No one went into the heart of the Forge, much less with an Earthling in tow. There was no water for hundreds of miles. The air was so hot and dry the red sky shimmered endlessly. At night T'Khut seemed so close one should be able to reach up and touch it.

"The Fire is an ancient volcanic cone, shaped by the winds to resemble a frozen flame. It is so named because it clings precariously to its place in the desert against all attempts by the climate to eradicate it."

"A volcanic cone?" Jim asked, "Like the Devil's Tower?"

Spock nodded, "The Clinging Fire is much older, and therefore much smaller. But it is still an imposing structure, with no caves or internal tunnels. I suspect we will find our captive and his host at the top."

Kirk rested his chin on his hand for a moment. "I've climbed the Devil's Tower. We should plan to climb this Fire of yours." He took another drink and asked,

"Any further opinion?"

"Opinion is a mute point. Star Fleet, indeed the Federation, has ordered us to go and so we shall. My cousin is a Federation citizen under enemy threat. We have no choice," Spock replied. He didn't add that only such peril to another would drive even he to enter Vulcan's Forge and take Jim with him.

McCoy suddenly leaned forward so that he was almost nose to nose with the Vulcan, bracing his clenched hands on the arm of Spock's chair.

"Well I have a choice!" he snapped, "You may be pushing that Vulcan body of yours to the limit, but some of its components are human, and you can't keep pushing those. I can declare you medically unfit for this."

McCoy was seething, his eyes flashing diamond bright, his jaw tense. Spock was ice to his fire.

"The kidnapper demanded both the Captain and myself. By refusing to allow me to accompany him, you may very well cost my cousin his life."

McCoy continued to glare at Spock, hoping to wear him down. It was like butting heads with granite.

"Bones," Jim said, his voice soft but his tone was thunder, "Let it go or you may one day have to explain to Amanda Grayson why you put her favorite nephew's life in danger."

McCoy straightened and rounded on Jim, "No I'm just going to have to explain to her why I let her only son put _his _life in danger."

The doctor swallowed the rest of his brandy in one straight gulp and stormed out of the Captain's cabin.

Spock's eyes rested on the door for a moment. Without looking at Jim he asked,

"Should I go after him?"

"No, he's just worried; and he's upset he doesn't get to go with us. He'll calm down."" Jim said, pausing to roll an appreciative bit of brandy around in his mouth before swallowing it. "I don't much like having my actions dictated by our adversary, Spock, but you're right. Stephen Grayson is a Federation citizen. McCoy's grousing aside, we have no choice. Are you up to it?"

It was no idle question. Spock nodded once and said, "The gates of Hell, Jim."

Kirk nodded, and lifted his glass in a toast, "Shall not prevail against them."


	13. Chapter 13

Daphne found her captain on the hangar deck, overseeing the preflight check of the Magellan – the shuttle that would carry he and Spock to Vulcan and into the heart of the Forge. He was talking to Spock as she approached from across the wide expanse of deck. Their heads were bent almost together and she was once again painfully aware of the energy that always sizzled between the two. Their voices were low, and tension held each man stiff-spined and alert. It was as if they shared some dark, painful knowledge; a terrible, silent dread of coming events.

Jim looked up as she approached.

"May I speak to you, Captain?" she asked.

"Of course," he answered and they walked a few feet away. The handful of crewmen readying the shuttle ignored them. Both Spock and McCoy had told Jim his resemblance to Daphne was obvious, but they had made no formal announcement of any kind about their relationship. If the crew wondered why the assistant head of the science department needed to talk to the Captain just before he departed on a dangerous mission, they wisely didn't let it show.

Without preamble Daphne said, "Don't take the Forge lightly. No human can survive there very long. You're wearing a cold suit?"

Jim nodded and pushed some of his desert soft suit out of the way so she could see it. His eyes rested on her, warm, reassuring and with all the Kirk charm that made people follow him into death and destruction; eyes that were golden brown at the moment, bright with intelligence and grim with determination.

"We'll be alright Daphne. Spock is with me," he touched her forearm gently, just a brush of his fingers against the fabric of her blue uniform.

She looked up and let all the fear and trepidation she was feeling show in her eyes.

"I would appreciate it if you would be very, _very ,_careful. I lost one brother before I ever had a chance to make him part of my life. I don't want to lose the other."

"You're not going to lose me," he attempted a boyish grin that didn't quite rise all the way into his eyes.

"Good, because I took this assignment to get to know my brother and so far I don't think I've really accomplished that goal."

Now Kirk did grin at her. It was accompanied by a deep laugh that made Daphne think of brandy and thunder, "Maybe that's because you've spent so much time getting to know my First Officer."

Daphne laughed, and envied her brother his ability to fill people with confidence and humor in the worst case scenario.

"We'll talk when I get back. All right?" he said.

She nodded and would have said more but a red-shirted crewman from Engineering called for the Captain's attention.

"You going to go tell Spock to be careful now?" Jim asked, teasing.

It made her smile a bit sheepishly. "Something like that," she admitted.

Spock was standing by the cargo hold of the shuttle, a stylus in his hand, reading through a list on a Padd in the other. He turned as she approached, not just his head, but his entire body as one unit. She winced inwardly. He hurt whether he would admit it or not. For one mad, impulsive moment she wanted to sink to her knees and beg him not to go. She had experienced his pain and felt that she had been torn apart by lightening. How he could control such agony and remain on his feet was beyond her understanding.

But then she looked up into midnight eyes and spiraled helplessly down into love. Spock would never put anything as trivial as his own life ahead of those for whom he cared. His gaze bored into hers for a moment, settled briefly on her lips and gave her the absurd notion he was going to kiss her. Then he gathered her heart and soul once more into his eyes.

Spock burned to touch her, to run his sensitive fingers from her smooth throat where her impossibly slow pulse beat, to her ear and jaw and up to her forehead. He longed to bring his fingers to rest on the touch points that would bring her thoughts and the pure brightness of her being flowing into him. He wanted to give her the pain just for a moment, to be done with it just long enough to breathe without hoping his control wouldn't break.

Instead he straightened a little, refusing to acknowledge the howl of pain that lanced up his spine as he did so, and nodded to her.

"Commander," she said, formally.

"Lt?"

Softly, for only his Vulcan hearing she said, "Pawn e2 to d4."

His reply was immediate, "Pawn, e7 to e5."

"Knight g1 to f3."

Spock's eyebrow lifted. "That is far too obvious a move for you," he said, suspicion lingering in his eyes.

"I wanted you to have a reason to come back," she answered.

"I have always had a reason to come back," he told her.

Daphne clenched her hands to keep from touching him, digging her nails into her own palms. She was certain that if she touched him her desperate need to prevent him from leaving would strike sparks, set the hangar deck ablaze and terrify the crew.

She knew he would die for her. She could only hope he was equally as determined to live for her.

"Take care of my brother," she managed to say.

"I always do," he replied.

Star Fleet discipline and training forced her to relax long enough to flash the Vulcan hand sign and say, "Sochaya heh dif."

Then she turned and walked away with as much military precision and control as she could muster.

"Daphne," Spock called.

She turned.

"Knight b8 to c6."

A slow, delicious enigmatic expression spread across her features. Spock felt a trill of alarm. Until meeting Daphne, chess had always been safe. By its very nature it was unemotional, impersonal.

"You'll have to come back to hear my answer," she said, then turned and left the hangar deck just as the red alarm started to flash, indicating the hangar deck was about to lose atmosphere.

Spock had no further chance to ponder their newly begun game of chess. He entered the shuttle craft, with Jim barely a heartbeat behind him.

They took their seats in the front as the shuttle as turned to face the bay doors. They yawned open and revealed the vivid red orb of Vulcan dominating the space before them. Jim shared one look with Spock and then lifted the shuttle off the deck.

The gates of Hell awaited them.


	14. Chapter 14

It was perhaps odd that Stephen Andrew Grayson more closely resembled his Aunt Amanda than her own son did. He had the same blue gray eyes that sparkled with the same life and humor, the same wavy sandy blond hair. He seemed to also have the Grayson appreciation for the exotic– in art, clothes, and in his case unfortunately, women. He had been easy prey for this lovely, self-assured – and he had thought Rigelian woman – who was now his captor. She had not mistreated him so far. In fact, his captivity atop this odd natural phenomenon in the middle of the Vulcan desert had been almost amiable. He had an emergency shelter kept cool with solar power, all the food he desired, a comfortable cot, even a private bathroom and shower. She didn't even bother to lock the door.

She didn't have too. To leave here, even if he could somehow get down the steep sides of the Ruskaraya ni'reh, was death. The merciless desert stretched in every direction. He knew he was on Vulcan. He knew that his Aunt Amanda would not rest until he was freed. He knew he had to remain patient and wait.

He just didn't know why he was here, or what the Rihannsu woman wanted with him in the first place.

She had visited him earlier, inquiring to his health and his needs. His response that he very much needed his freedom had only been answered with a short bark of laughter. She had regarded him the way one looks at a new and useful tool. Stephen had always recognized that she was a complex and dominant woman, even when he had believed her to be Rigelian. Whatever she wanted from him, it had something to so with a warrior's need to control.

She had approached him and he recoiled instinctively. It had brought a flash of triumph to her eyes, to watch him submit, but she waved a hand imperiously,

"I have not gone to all this trouble to keep you alive simply to harm you now," she said. Her eyes swept him possessively, "You are a two-edged sword, Stephen Grayson. That is much too valuable for me."

He had no idea what she meant and several attempts to get her to reveal her purpose failed before she finally left. He watched the door close and almost went after her, but the searing afternoon heat of the Vulcan desert discouraged him.

In frustration, he flopped down on the bed, threw an arm over his eyes and tried to remain calm.

'_Aunt Amanda,' _he thought, _'Whatever you and Uncle Sarek are doing, do it faster…. And be careful.'_


	15. Chapter 15

The Romulan Commander had stalked away from the human's enclosure, out into the blazing heat of a planet her ancestors had once claimed as home and then abandoned. She fought to urge to brush off her clothes, as if the human had contaminated her somehow. She had been raised to hate humans. She had good reason to hate Vulcans.

It was hard to believe the blond, blue-eyed human, whose emotions has clearly shown in his face, was related to that other one – the one who almost cost her a hard-fought for career, if not her very life, but had spared her, hardly interrogated her, sent her home. The one had touched something in her soul and left her with a need to possess him that warred endlessly with a need to destroy him.

Spock.

_What were you that you could do this to me? _

The only conquest she had begun and could not finish, not by power play or subterfuge or her own considerable sensuality. The one thing she wanted beyond reason and could not have.

When her initial rage had cooled she had been forced to acknowledge, at least to herself, that he had never said or done anything overtly to mislead her. It was she who had been drawn magnetically to her first Vulcan. She had been indoctrinated to believe they all would prefer to be Romulan. His apparent interest had not been cause for alarm on her part. She had found him cool, remote as no man had ever been with her, but seemingly willing, as all men were with her. The combination had been electric.

Had she truly stopped to listen to anything he said she would have hesitated. As if had been, she had succumbed too easily to the richness of his voice, the heated touch of his fingers. The almost-touch of his mind teased her with the promise of the unique individual who would soon be hers to command, the prize she could bring home to the Empire.

He had humiliated her, used her own arrogance and pride against her. Even now, over a year since her fury had failed to consume her, she could easily imagine his execution. She wondered how she would stop herself from killing him long enough to return him to the Praetor for interrogation and eventual death.

His death, her redemption in the eyes of her betters.

Spock.

Was it only because she could not have him that she continued to want him? Once conquered she was certain she could just cast him aside as she did with all other men, watch his execution with a remote coolness that matched his. The first few months after the theft of the cloaking device she had filled countless hours contemplating his death and how to achieve it – slow poisons, Romulan ritual knives, or just holding him until the onset of Pon Farr and watching has he died in agony.

He had taken her prisoner, taken the cloaking device, and humiliated her. He made her blood run hot and cold, as if the gods of Vulcan and the gods of Andor took turns tormenting her. He caused conflicting emotions to boil and ferment. The very thought of him caused pain to flood her being.

And finally he had prevented her from taking her own life. He had convinced her to live, to return to the Empire.

She could forgive him that least of all. At the end of their final conversation she had ordered him out of her sight, demanded that she never had to lay eyes on him again.

He had complied.

But now she would see him again, under her terms. Her plan to assassinate him, his ship and all he held dear, had failed. But now it was back in her hands, where she should have kept it to begin with. He had fanned the flames of her hatred of all things Federation into a fever. She would have him on his knees begging for mercy, stripped of his damned Vulcan certainty, his calm shattered. She would strip him of his dignity and rank and title.

She would destroy him.


	16. Chapter 16

"She knows we are coming," Spock said, as he set the shuttle craft down in the middle of one of the most desolate places Kirk had ever seen in the galaxy.

"Telepathy?" Kirk asked.

Spock shot a curious look at his captain. "We're being scanned," he answered.

Kirk nodded. Technology. Not what McCoy called "Vulcan voodoo." That he could deal with.

Spock powered down the shuttle and Jim got the packs carrying their climbing and survival gear. Trying not to be obvious Jim watched Spock with his peripheral vision. His First Officer appeared normal while seated, nothing to be alarmed about. But his movements were different, stiffer, without their usual smooth grace. His breathing was labored, and since Jim should not have been aware of Spock breathing at all that alone was cause for alarm. He also appeared to be frowning, though it could just be concentration.

Kirk sighed in frustration. There was nothing he could do. Even if he had ordered Spock to remain behind, Spock would have refused and found another way to get to Vulcan. At least this way he could keep an eye on him.

Besides, he needed Spock. He knew enough about basic desert survival, and he had the proper equipment. But he didn't have Vulcan hearing, or Spock's long experience with the Vulcan desert.

Nor could he have endured the heat, the searing inferno that was Vulcan. It washed over him in a flaming wave, seared his lungs, and left him gasping for breath in spite of the tri-ox compound he had dutifully taken. The moisture in his throat and eyes would have been sucked dry without the protective coatings McCoy had supplied. Without the cold suit, Kirk knew he would be dead out here in a matter of hours; and it was just before dawn in Vulcan's Forge. Jim wondered what midday was like and hoped their business was complete by then.

Spock on the other hand seemed somehow restored as soon as he stepped from the shuttle. He straightened, inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. He had once told Jim, "I was spawned in a very different ocean than you." That 'ocean" – of heat and sand and some of the harshest conditions known to the galaxy - was now spread out before them. The Forge was Vulcan's driving heart and merciless, faithless soul. Its unforgiving nature had created the race that had made a civilization here, triumphed over surroundings, adapted to them and finally defied their own bloodthirsty heritage to make peace.

And one of them, one of that hardy and magnificent race, had chosen to follow him, to stand at his shoulder and back his intuition even when that intuition defied the logic Vulcans held so dear. It mystified Jim, but he dared not question it. The friendship, and the loyalty that accompanied it, were too dear to _him._

Rising out of the sand and shimmering like a mirage, was the dead volcanic plug known as the Clinging Fire. It looked much like the Devils Tower, on Earth, which Jim had free climbed many times. He knew from the mission briefing that it was much smaller, with more jagged cliffs at the top to be dealt. Once the climb at the top was over, they had to scramble down the other side to reach the valley. Their directions placed their final destination in nearly the dead center of the top of the cone.

The Romulan Commander would know they were coming and be able to see them for miles; and they would arrive already depleted from the climb and the heat. At least Jim would. Under normal circumstances, a climb and a short hike in his native desert would hardly leave Spock breathing hard. But circumstances were not normal. Jim glanced at him, trying not to look anxious, trying not to "hover." Spock didn't like it when McCoy hovered. There was still a hint of guardedness about him, something he was keeping to himself. But his color was better and his eyes were clear and alert.

As Kirk had expected, he was more tired after the walk across two kilometers of desert than Spock was. The sand was soft and shifted underfoot, making progress slower than he would have liked even in the boots made for such a hike. As the unrelenting Vulcan sun climbed higher the heat became more intense. Heat lightning began to splinter the orange-red sky. Clouds formed in the blink of an eye and vanished. Jim drank often; Spock not at all. The cold suit protected him from the heat to a certain extent. The tri-ox compound helped him breathe. But there was no invention that could protect him from the pressure of Vulcan's greater gravity. The climb up Ruskaraya ni'reh was not going to be a walk in the park.

The closer they got to the Clinging Fire the more certain Jim was that both of them were about to vaporized in a lancing stream of phaser fire. Out here in the open, with nothing but sand and shimmering heat, they were at the mercy of anyone watching them approach.

Spock had arranged to land so that they would arrive at the Clinging Fire on the shaded side. Jim walked gratefully into that shadow, shrugged out of his backpack and sat down. He leaned against the rock, which was hot, and tried not to breathe in the sand brought by the brief blast of warm wind.

"Jim?" Spock said. The concern in his voice was obvious though he would no doubt pass it off as his duty to his captain's health and safety.

"I'm fine, Spock. Ready to climb?"

The Vulcan nodded and began unloading climbing gear from his pack. It was state of the art gear, a technology that should get them to the top with relative ease – provided the heat didn't get them, or any of the large poisonous reptiles known to live on the Clinging Fire, or that blast of phaser fire Jim still expected at any moment, or a streak of heat lightening.

Jim lost all sense of time after that. His entire life was now centered on the mantra _handhold, foothold, hoist up, handhold, foothold, hoist up _with pauses only to drink and hang from the side of the Clinging Fire catching his breath. Normally he loved to climb and would one day look back on the scaling of this Vulcan icon as a personal triumph. At the moment, he would be happy to survive it.

The pauses slowed him down as Spock didn't stop at all and reached the top well ahead of him. He finally joined his friend to stand panting at the pinnacle. He was winded and drenched in sweat despite his cold suit. He bent over and placed his hands on his knees, gasping for air, his face bright red from the effort, his hair plastered to his forehead. He took the opportunity to glance up at Spock in concern. He looked flushed, a deeper shade of olive than normal, and the muscles in his jaw and neck were tense.

Spock pointed and Jim followed the line to see two small shelters, solar panels glinting on the roofs, nestled on the valley floor. The slope down was not long or steep and they packed up the climbing gear. Jim fervently hoped they would need it for the climb down. He straightened up, nodded reassuringly when Spock placed a hand under his elbow, and then began picking his way down a slope rife with tiny stones and bits of broken rock.

They had not gone far, trying not to slip in the gritty sand and stones, when Spock put his hand on Jim's shoulder and squeezed. The Vulcan had come to a halt, every muscle tense, and every sense alert.

"What?" Jim whispered.

He watched Spock tilt his head, listening intently, then look sharply down and to their right.

"Lamatya," he said, finally, grimly and pointed.

Sliding in and out of the shadows, the long long-slung form of Vulcan's most deadly predator, was making its way steadily across the terrain.

"Young," Spock said, "relatively small." This startled Jim since the lizard had to be at least 6 feet long. "Inexperienced perhaps, but hungry if it risks hunting this late in the morning."

"Does it see us?"

"No, its eyesight is actually very poor. It scents us though."

Even from this distance Jim could see a preposterously long black forked tongue flicking in and out, tasting the air in their direction.

"Jim," Spock said, urgently, "I have the antidote to their poison with me, but do not let it near you. Even an antidote is no guarantee."

Jim was about to reply when the lamatya screamed. The sound was primal, eerie, designed to terrify prey out of hiding. It stood the hair up on Jim's arms and the back of his neck. He recalled the information about the predator that he had absorbed before this mission- ruthless, well adapted to the environment, a long, long snout filled with rows of needle sharp teeth and dagger-like claws filled with deadly poison. This was not a complication they needed this close to their quarry.

The creator picked up speed suddenly and Spock turned to head back up the slope. Jim followed.

The Vulcan moved with nearly the same speed as the pursuing lamatya and Jim struggled to keep up. Ascending, Spock led his captain to a place where a landslide had deposited a collection of rocks and boulders. He stopped before one that was exceedingly large and more round than most. It was sitting in a pile of crushed stones and gravel.

Spock glanced wordlessly at Jim and lifted an eyebrow. It was too big for even both of them to lift, but with the right leverage it could be rolled. Their adversary was snaking his way up a switchback in the lose shale, obviously a hunting trail created over long years. Timed correctly the boulder would hit the animal. Jim nodded and set his shoulder against it, bracing his feet as well as he could. Spock hesitated.

"Spock?" Jim asked, mystified.

"It is only an animal, fulfilling its niche in nature," Spock said, his reluctance to kill evident in his eyes, even though this was his idea.

"At the moment we're fulfilling the niche of its food supply," Jim pointed out. "I didn't climb all the way up here to rescue your cousin only to wind up as a meal for that thing."

Spock nodded, took a deep breath and said, "I doubt the doctor would forgive me for allowing you to be eaten."

"Not to mention Daphne," Jim pointed out.

"Point taken," Spock said. He looked down the slope and found the lamatya gaining ground rapidly. If they could roll the boulder in the next few seconds they could trap it against an outcropping of rock. He put both hands on it, digging his feet into the sand of his native planet and, on Jim's nod, they shoved.

At first nothing happened. Jim turned and put his back against the boulder and they both strained with simple brute strength until it slipped a little. It moved slowly at first, and then its own weight dragged it forward. It plummeted towards the lamatya with an accuracy they had not dared to hope for. Intent on the hunt, using its sense of smell and sight, the lamatya remained unaware of the danger until it was too late. By the time it saw the oncoming boulder it had time only to twist around and then scream in outrage as it was crushed against a wall of rock behind it. The cry echoed off the stones for a moment and then faded away. Lightning flashed and crackled and burned the air. Kirk turned his head and closed his eyes to block out the blinding light and horrific noise.

When Jim looked at Spock and found him with his head bowed, eyes closed. He didn't know if it was some kind of Vulcan ritual of forgiveness for killing, or if Spock was trying to regain control over the pain he was in after so much physical labor. He had known Spock for four years, trusted him with his life, and yet there was still so much about him he didn't understand.

Spock looked up again finally and, seeing Jim's worried expression, nodded slightly. Without another word, they started down towards the valley once again.

She heard the lamatya scream and knew it was dead. She felt no remorse, in fact felt relieved. Death in the poisonous clutches of a dumb beast was not the death she wanted for Spock. The other one, the human, she could happily feed the first beast who would have him. Let the Vulcan see his captain dead in certainty and not the faked death they had inflicted on her.

Spock … she had other plans for him.


	17. Chapter 17

Having walked, slipped and slid down the hazardous trail they stepped cautiously onto the relatively flat landscape of the valley floor. Jim glanced at the sky, still being torn by skeletal fingers of white hot lightning. He didn't relish walking out into the open and being the tallest thing between the rocky outcroppings of the slope and the small shelters before them. The buildings weren't all that far now, and yet seemed much farther.

Spock touched his arm to get his attention and pointed to the roof of the larger building. Pacing alone, facing them was the Romulan Commander. It was too far to make out her features for a positive identification, but they both knew it was she. Not tall, but proud, aristocratic in manner and bearing, Spock was suddenly assaulted by the memory of the brush of her mind against his. Daphne had been right; the Rihannsu had no more mental control than the Earthlings. He had given her only his curiosity and fascination with the Romulans. It had been enough to convince her of his permanent devotion.

Arrogance and ego had been her downfall. Spock was hoping that not much had changed. Even now she paused as if realizing they had seen her, she stopped pacing and faced then with deliberate insolence. The blood-red sky silhouetted her like molten lava. Lightning seemed to flash at her command.

"The Keeper of the Gates of Hell," Jim said, ruefully.

Without further hesitation and unable to ignore so bold a challenge, Kirk began striding across the open space with Spock at his heels. The Vulcan cast his commander a glance, measuring his strength and degree of exhaustion. Kirk didn't have Vulcan strength, and he was far out of his element, but there was a power in the man that was apparent, indomitable. He possessed a fighting will that would see his body broken into pieces before he would yield. It was a quality of mind that had kept Spock following him for four years. It was a quality he understood.

The ground here was scoured clean of sand by millennia of hot winds. Disregarding the heat and imposing gravity Kirk fixed his eyes on the image of the Romulan Commander and continued forging ahead. Spock was at his shoulder now, in lock-step. They were both intent on their quarry so they saw it when it happened.

A flash of lightning arrowed from the sky as if thrown by an angry god and struck the building on which she stood. There was an explosion and shockwave that rocked Spock and Kirk back a step and then the building burst into flame. Furious red flames erupted behind the Romulan Commander and Kirk and Spock broke into a dead run.

By the time they reached the buildings, the larger one was almost fully engulfed in flame. The heat roiled from it and the flames crackled with glee. Hell had indeed come to Vulcan and the Gates had been flung open. They were heading for the flaming building when Spock's Vulcan hearing picked up the sounds of someone shouting and pounding on the door of the other building. He turned quickly. Jim skidded and turned to run after him.

"Stephen!" Spock shouted by way of explanation.

By the time they reached the sealed door even Jim could hear the pounding and shouting. There was a small access panel set into the wall by the door. Jim tried to open it without success, sliding his fingers around the edges of it looking for purchases, a look of grim determination on his face. Spock touched his shoulder suddenly, and with the delicacy one might use with a child he moved Kirk aside and then slammed his fist through the panel.

Sparks shot from it and Spock stared at it for a moment, frozen, looking like he had needed to do something like that for a long time. Then heedless of the sparks and sizzling sounds he reached inside and simply ripped the electronic guts out of the panel.

The door slid open and Stephen stumbled out into Hell. He grasped Spock's forearms to stop his momentum, looked up into Spock's face and burst into a wide grin.

"Damn it, she picked a fine time to start locking that door! Good GOD you sure know how to make an entrance!" he cried. "You look like the devil himself and you brought your place of residence with you!"

"It is gratifying to see you well, Stephen," Spock replied.

"You haven't changed at all," Stephen observed and then he looked over Spock's shoulder at the blazing building and his face fell, "The Commander, she's in there! I know she caused all this but…."

"I'll get her," Spock said, "Go with my captain."

"Now just a damned minute, Spock," Jim began, command lacing his voice.

Spock turned, his face held a kind of quiet urgency. "No, Jim," he said, as if he knew this man and that tone of voice too well, "This is between her and me. It always has been. Get Stephen into the cold suit and out of here. I will follow with her. You can't survive these conditions much longer and neither can Stephen. The later it gets the hotter it will become and we still have to regain the shuttle."

Jim Kirk looked back at him unflinchingly but knew he was right and they were wasting time. A crashing, splintering sound behind them told him the burning building was collapsing. He hustled Stephen back inside to change into the cold suit they had packed for him and cast one helpless look over his shoulder at Spock making his way to the burning building. From the roof, the demonic shadow of the Romulan Commander stood in defiance and looked down.


	18. Chapter 18

_Spock._

She tossed her burnished hair off her shoulder and ignored the heat at her back. Even still this far away she could not trust herself to look too closely at him, in spite of the flames and dangers, a warm flush of wanting still possessed her at the thought of him. Rage brighter than the surrounding flames burned in her along with desire.

_What were you that you could do this to me?_

First Officer of the Enterprise; and he was striding towards the building on which she stood, with purpose. He was coming for her.

The thought stirred her to action. She ran to the door that led to the stairs back down into the bowels of the building and reached for the handle. She started to grasp it and wrenched her hand back with a gasp. It was hot. The staircase must be on fire; the rooms below it an inferno. Flames licked the edges of the roof. It would not hold much longer.

And all at once, the rage ran out of her. Spock had kept her from taking her own life once. He could not prevent it now. She had failed. She could not go back to the Empire.

Taking a deep breath she reached once more for the handle.

"_THEA! Don't," _his voice, filled with command, using the name she shared with no one, jerked her around to face him, fury and desire once again tumbling through her blood.

He was standing at the edge of the roof, having clearly somehow just climbed up the side of the building. In another time, in another age, it might even have been heroic, romantic. In another time he may have done it because he loved her.

That he had done it at all was only salt in her already wounded heart.

"Everything below us is on fire," he said, taking a step towards her. "Come with me."

"Why?" she demanded, gray eyes flashing. "I would have killed you. I still want you to die."

"I've no doubt of it," Spock replied, calmly, as if they were not standing precariously on the roof of a building about to go down in flames. His eyes were on her, steady but with some horror, as if he stared into some fathomless night.

"Then why do you care what becomes of me? Even now, if you save me, I will use everything in my power to destroy you and your precious Enterprise. Before you I hated Star Fleet as a matter of duty but you made it personal. Why do continue to prevent me from killing myself, as I should have done all those months ago when you left me in disgrace!"

Roofing dissolved in a shower of sparks and a scorching wall of flame erupted behind her but she stood her ground.

"It is the Vulcan way," Spock replied, "Thea…."

The second use of her name by that magnetic, melodious voice, the one that had haunted her dreams for months, fanned the flames of her own hatred and she launched herself at him, screaming a vile curse in her own tongue. Her plan to destroy him slowly over time was collapsing around her. The best she could hope was to take him with her into death.

Spock braced for the impact, caught her, his hand finding the junction of her neck and shoulder just as her hand connected with his face. The blow knocked his head sideways but his aim was also true. Pressure from his fingers cut off the flow of blood to her brain and she collapsed in his arms.

He held her for a moment, cradling her dead weight and struggling for breath. He was mortally exhausted, pain a constant companion now. Breathing was agony. He longed to lie down and just let it claim him.

But that was not why he had come to Vulcan, and not why he had climbed up here. Summoning mind control learned at the feet of his masters, Spock lifted the Romulan Commander over his shoulder; secured the rope he had brought with him to a metal support and began to climb down.

Unlike the Commander, he had a reason to live – a blond-haired, tawny eyed reason to live.


	19. Chapter 19

Daphne ran down the empty corridor towards the shuttle bay entrance and arrived there just as her brother was coming out. She took advantage of the fact that no one else was around and grasped him gratefully by the forearms. She looked into his face and saw exhaustion, dirt smudges and grime. His hair was stiff and spiky with dried sweat. The skin on his cheeks, nose and tops of his ears was red, burned from the merciless Vulcan sun in spite of precautions. Her heart, which had been knotted hard and painfully with real fear, began to beat again.

"Gods on high," she whispered, gripping him tightly, "Are you all right?"

His smile was all Kirk, charming, reassuring, boyish. Hazel eyes looked straight into hers without hesitation. "Not even a scratch."

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She knew him well enough to know that his voice could be surprisingly mild when the going was the toughest. It soothed the crew and made strong men willing to follow his every command. But at the moment it wasn't fooling her.

He relented, seeing the interrogation in her expression, "All right, maybe a few bruises; and a desperate need for a shower, preferably cold and also I'd like to lower the temperature in my cabin about twenty degrees for a few hours. Other than that I'm fine."

That made her relax a bit and smile slightly. She'd grown up on Vulcan. She knew all about the heat. But then she looked past him into the shuttle bay, her eyes searching for Spock. She froze again as she watched a medical team help him walk out of the shuttle and collapse onto a medical gurney. She tried to run, to get to him and Jim stopped her.

"He's all right. He'll sleep now, heal, probably for days," his voice was low, soothing, gentle.

She shot him a look filled with gold fire. "He's not all right. Spock would never willing get onto a medical gurney if he was all right."

Kirk took a deep breath of blessed cool air and let it out slowly. He could bluff with the best, and often did, but ultimately his crew followed him because he gave them the respect of a straight answer.

"He will be. McCoy has him, and M'Benga. I could have brought him back in pieces and McCoy wouldn't rest until they were put back together. He's pushed himself, Daphne, and pushed hard. We both know that. But we'll all make him heal now. He'll retreat from us for a while, back behind the Great Wall of Vulcan, but he needs to."

Daphne nodded. She understood the healing trance was more than just a physical healing. It was also a mental restoration and a chance to once again bank the fires of his ancient Vulcan blood.

"When he wakes up, you have to hit him fairly hard to bring him out of it fully," she told him.

Kirk's face broke into a genuine grin. "McCoy and I are going to take turns. You want in on that action?"

Daphne almost laughed. They all loved Spock, but he drove them to the end of their patience at times.

"It's over, Daphne," Jim said, with certainty.

She was about to ask him how he knew it was over when the Romulan Commander was brought out of the shuttle in the custody of three red shirted security guards. Daphne gasped and took an involuntary step closer to her brother.

"Not again. She's on board again? Our prisoner?"

" 'Fraid so," Jim said, his expression rueful, "I doubt she likes it any better than you do."

Daphne's throat ached suddenly and she leaned against Jim for a moment, as she had been standing too long in the gale of a storm. Her eyes when they met his were fathomless. She became very still, even her pulse seemed to pause.

"Then it isn't over," she said, softly, "That woman wants you dead. She wants Spock tortured, killed and revived so she can do it again. As long as she lives, it isn't over."

Then the large group of people gathered in the shuttle began to make their way towards the door and Daphne lost the luxury of privacy. She stepped away from her brother, putting professional distance between them.

Her odd stillness lasted as long as the procession of people took to leave the shuttle bay. She watched Spock as he was pushed past on his way to sickbay, trying to keep her heart out of her eyes. He had closed his eyes and seemed to almost be in a healing trance already. Along the slender, still fragile mental bond between them she felt nothing. Spock's cousin Stephen was also on his way to sickbay. He appeared fine, if tired and sweat-stained and a bit shocked.

Then she made herself look at the Romulan Commander as she was marched down the corridor behind Spock. The Commander's head was up and her back was stiff and proud, a warrior arrogant even in defeat. Wisely, Daphne shielded the emotions flowing from the Romulan as best she could.

She looked at her brother again when the procession was past. He looked weary but solid.

"The gates of hell, Daphne," Jim said, sounding as if he was reciting a quote he knew by heart, "shall not prevail against them.'

She tilted her head, curious and confused. Taking advantage of their regained privacy, Kirk put his arm around her shoulders and began guiding her down the corridor.

"Something Spock keeps reminding me," he said, cryptically.


	20. Chapter 20

_Two weeks later, USS Enterprise, in orbit around Earth._

"Come," Kirk said, to answer the chime that told him someone was at the door of his quarters.

He looked expectantly at the door. Spock looked at it with an air of calm certainty.

It was Daphne. Her smile was for both men, the passion that briefly lit her eyes was only for Spock.

"Am I interrupting?" she asked.

"No, not at all," Jim said as Spock got up to bring another chair to the desk for her. "What's on your mind?"

"You said we'd talk when you got back. That was two weeks ago," she answered, settling into the chair.

"So I did," Jim agreed.

"Should I go?" Spock asked.

"No," Jim said, "I don't think we're going to say anything you can't hear, or don't already know." He leaned back and regarded her closely. "So who won the chess match?"

When they looked askance at him, he prompted, "The one you started before we left for Vulcan, on the hangar deck."

Daphne smiled, "Spock."

"It was an excellent ploy though," Spock said, quickly. She shot a glance at him full of tolerance and humor.

"So," Jim said, drawing her attention back, "What did you want to talk about?"

Her eyes met his, full of hesitation and hope, "I was wondering," she began, softly, "if you would tell me about Sam…."

FINIS


End file.
